


After the Revival

by xeurydice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcoholism, Attachment Issues, Canonical Child Abuse, Death Eaters, Espionage, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Other, Past Child Abuse, Psychology, Secret Relationship, Some Humor, Some Sex, Some angst, Some of everything, Sort Of, Torture, time-appropriate science, undercover babes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 81,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26086906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xeurydice/pseuds/xeurydice
Summary: To New York City’s muggle PhD students, Voldemort's daughter is just another of their own; perhaps a little more intense than the rest of the psych lab, certainly with some mania and post-traumatic stress, but who wouldn't be after growing up in a "weird fascist cult" that none of them have heard of? "Physician, heal thyself," her friends joke, and she chokes on the drink she always has in one hand.To the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix alike, she is a lethal opponent, a military advantage who could give them just the edge they need. Never mind her volatility--she's addicted to adrenaline and out for revenge, and only her parents know as well as Dumbledore that anyone with desires can be controlled.To the only other spy in either organization, she is an enigma, and in spite of himself he is allowing her to draw him in like a fish on a line. "It's just the tits," he tells himself, "you've been alone for too long," but when she shoots him a wink his world shrinks to five foot eight.Starts at the end of GoF, picks up from summer before HBP.I write/edit out of order so updates will be in bursts--a rough version is "finished" though, so fret not--this will have closure eventually!
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 68





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously all non-original characters, concepts, and dialogues belong to JKR, not me.
> 
> The idea of this came about from a completely unrelated non-fanfiction piece I'm writing, which I got writer's block over during early quarantine. I read the fic credited below and fell back in love with our boy Snape, and then got the idea halfway through a Zoom HP marathon to drop my OCs (okay, mostly one of them) in a different world and see what happened. If you're interested in beta reading more about CJ and the boys as they wrestle with organized crime, corrupt judicial systems, some spicy trauma, and student loans in 2010s NYC/Moscow, let me know and I'd be happy to send it over. 
> 
> Some characterizations and situations are inspired by this brilliant fic: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7937889/1/A-Difference-in-the-Family-The-Snape-Chronicles
> 
> I really regressed to my fanfiction heyday and listened to a lot of 2000s mall goth music while writing this so sorry/not sorry for the angst. Finally, I HC the Death Eaters as having a very similar dynamic to, when Voldemort is present, the first few (through dinner) and, when he's not, the last few (funeral on) scenes of the GENIUS 2017 movie, The Death of Stalin. Basically, 50% absurdist chaos and 50% vicious power struggles and unrestrained ambition. If you haven't watched it you absolutely should, especially if you're a Jason Isaacs stan and/or Soviet history nerd (I'm both). Brownie points for anyone who gets the couple of references I threw in :)

Long before Potter returned with a corpse and the crowd devolved into chaos, he knew. The band had still been playing when, for the first time in many years, Severus Snape gasped out loud in pain as a burn like irradiation blistered the skin of his forearm. He knew the tattoo would be deep black, the skin around it red and inflamed. It would blister after a few more minutes, and fighting the urge to make a sound of pain, he began to cross the bleachers towards Dumbledore. Why had he sat so far away from the man? And why was it so damn crowded? Shifting past the many-legged beast of the audience, he finally passed to the opposite end of the row. Only six more to go. The whole school, and the whole seniormost class of two other schools, turned out to stare at a hedge for three hours.

There were two rows left between him and Dumbledore when the otherwise cheerful atmosphere dissolved into chaos.

It took a moment to process that two boys, not one, had returned with the Triwizard cup, and another moment to notice that one was having hysterics and the other very still. Then the screaming started. Harry Potter was barely audible over the clamor, but Severus made out “Voldemort—Pettigrew—he’s back—”

 _Yes_ , the man thought bitterly. _Thank you, Potter, I got that far_.

His former—no, not former anymore but all too current—master had always had a knack for scheduling impromptu meetings at the most inconvenient times. Three in the morning, the Tuesday before he had to proctor an exam; kneeling on the floor in tattered jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt next to his father’s corpse; and now, here, at this glorified game show, with dozens of screaming teenagers between himself and the man he needed to speak to. Standing, Dumbledore rose and strode towards the boy, the crowd parting smoothly as he passed. Severus, all but shoving people out of the way, envied his ease. Jesus wept, his arm was on fucking fire—and the last person he’d wanted to intercept him had done so. Stumping gracelessly ahead on his lopsided legs came Mad-Eye Moody, and joined Dumbledore in conversation, forcing the other professor to hang back among the throng, and then ( _thank Merlin_ , Severus thought) he was half-carrying the boy towards the castle. When he finally reached Dumbledore’s side, it was to compete with Fudge for the man’s attention, and inwardly he could have slapped the man.

“—can’t be taking him seriously, Dumbledore, I say—“

“Cornelius, I will discuss this later. I have to see to my student. Severus, excellent—and Minerva—with me, please, _now_.”

Resigning himself to postpone acknowledging the pain in his arm, he followed the two more senior professors back to the castle, Minister of Magic still close behind. “He’s with Moody, Headmaster. Surely he’ll—“

“It’s not Moody.”

“Albus, you can’t be sure of—“ McGonagall began, and Severus felt a rush of affection for her.

“You will understand in a moment.” He had broken into a run, and Severus increased his pace to match. Between the stitch in his side and the burn in his arm and the way sweat glued his clothes uncomfortably to his skin as he panted up the stairs behind the much older man, it was not without a note of dread that Severus noted how out-of-shape he’d become in the decade since the Dark Lord’s fall. A rapid internal monologue of expletives had increased to a near-hysterical pitch. When the headmaster blew the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom off its hinges, it exposed an unconscious Alastor Moody and a Potter sitting wide-eyed, sleeve rolled up to expose a shallow cut on his forearm.

“Moody?” the boy asked dumbly.

“Severus,” Dumbledore began, and he started. “Please fetch me the strongest truth potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky.”

Resentment tinted his mental blue streak, but it was with a curt and silent nod that he turned and jogged back down the stairs. He wondered if the Dark Lord would be receptive to the _spy_ excuse, then thought, _if he’s not, I’m well fucked either way,_ and forced his attention back to the task at hand, seizing a vial of veritaserum from his office and turning towards the kitchens, locking up behind himself. “Winky? I need an elf named Winky. Ideally _now_ ,” he snapped after a few moments’ unresponsiveness, “if you please—“

“This is Winky, sir!” one of the mass of house-elves informed him, shoving one towards his knees. He blinked. The elf was unmistakably drunk—he’d seen the stumble and half-closed eyes in his mother often enough to tell. No matter.

“Follow me.”

Knowing that, intoxicated or not, she wouldn’t be able to obey a direct order from a Hogwarts employee, he broke into a run. The door was still off its hinges when he stumbled in, but Alastor Moody was no longer in the chair. Alastor Moody was, in fact, apparently nowhere in sight, and the fact that he recognized the man who had taken his place hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. “Crouch!” His voice came out higher than he’d intended. “Barty Crouch!?”

McGonagall, though more composed, blurted, “Good heavens.”

The elf was hysterical, the headmaster livid, and Severus’s mind seemed to separate from his body as Dumbledore interrogated the man. _Of course_ , he thought, _the obviousness of the signs, the_ childishness _of the entire plot_. He watched himself stand still and composed from the sidelines, the way he had so many times before. It was so much easier to separate oneself from the present, he reflected, following Dumbledore’s orders to retrieve first Madam Pomfrey, then Cornelius Fudge, than to experience it. Certainly much less painful. The Dementor had taken Crouch’s soul—that was fine, so much the better, in fact, now he wouldn’t have to explain a year of dodging around an auror. Potter was naming Death Eaters—less fine, certainly not ideal, but he hadn’t been there, had he? so it would be alright. Funny that it was Cornelius Fudge, the idiot, the incompetent, the _Prime bloody Minister_ who got his news from the _Daily bloody Prophet,_ who snapped him back to earth. God, at least Thatcher’d had more than two neurons to rub together even if she’d seen his father out of work. More than anything, though, the anticipation was grating on his already worn nerves.

He stepped between the bickering bureaucrats and rolled up his left sleeve, the gasps of horror like tiny shocks on his skin. Scars littered the flesh, but the skull-and-snake brand that flushed the skin around it red drew the bulk of their attention. “There,” he spat, “There. The Dark Mark. It’s not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to disapparate and apparat instantly at his side. The Mark has been growing clearer all year—why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn, we both knew He had returned. Karkaroff fears vengeance; he betrayed too many of his fellows to be sure of a welcome back into the fold.”

He ignored Fudge’s sputtering confusion and departure, Dumbledore’s hatefully calm dismissal of Pomfrey and McGonagall, and would happily have ignored all else until he was dismissed had the headmaster not, as calmly as if it was nothing, addressed a dog at Potter’s bedside. This in itself would not have been noteworthy. Dumbledore would happily carry on a chat with nearly anything, were there the remotest evidence that it could listen, if not comprehend. It was when the dog reared onto its hind legs and turned into a man that he felt his face convulse. “What’s he doing here?” _Careful, careful, Severus, don’t show so much, you’re out of practice—_ he scolded himself, but was unable to neutralize his expression. The man had tried to kill him, for Christ’s sake, more than once, the first time when they were only teenagers. The man had all but killed his only friend and her family, had murdered a dozen others in cold blood, and here he was, and everyone acting as though it was perfectly acceptable?

“Sirius Black!” shrieked a woman at Potter’s bedside, and ruefully, he amended, _everyone except Molly Weasley, though she’s hardly unflappable_.

“He is here at my invitation—as are you, Severus.” _Don’t you dare equate us,_ he wanted to scream, but forced himself to stay silent as the headmaster continued, even forced himself to shake the man’s hand, though only when ordered. He thought his grip was rather firmer than the other’s and let that serve as some balm. Anger had brought him too acutely back to the present, and a rushing in his ears continued until he heard the headmaster repeat his name some minutes later. “Severus.” He almost flinched. “You know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready… If you are prepared…”

There was no other option, and strangely, that fact calmed him. “I am.”

“Then good luck.”

In just enough time to realize that he empathized far more with slaughterhouse cows than he’d ever dreamed, Severus walked to the school’s perimeter, took a slow, deep breath, and disapparated.


	2. 2

Across the sea, a tall, dark-haired young woman collapsed onto her bed. “Doctor Black,” she said out loud, and laughed as the room started to spin.

 _You’re drunk again_ , admonished the python, uncoiling from the heating pad on the windowsill and slithering over onto the woman’s stomach. Even to someone less fond of snakes than her, she was a beautiful creature. Pure white scales glowed silver in the light from the street, and as an ambulance passed her eyes flashed dark blue in the sirens.

“ _I know, Svetlana_ ,” she slurred, in a different language than before, suppressing giggles. “ _It’s been a long semester_.”

_Where were you?_

“Rooftop on fifth. I’m a doctor now, can you believe it? They let any asshole be a doctor nowadays.” The already long sibilants of parseltongue were further drawn out by alcohol.

 _Go to sleep,_ said Svetlana, but the woman was already unconscious.

The next morning, she staggered into a shower, brushed her teeth, applied sunscreen and a little mascara and dark lipstick, and dressed in denim shorts, a sleeveless white top, and—most importantly—an oversized pair of sunglasses. Running manicured fingers through her still-wet hair, she kicked on a pair of low heels and pulled a pair of headphones over her ears before turning to the snake. “Brunch with Dima and Eliot. Want to come?”

_If I can eat there again._

“Sure.”

The snake crossed the room eagerly and slithered up her leg to rest around her shoulders, head level with the woman’s eyes and tail wrapped loosely around her left arm. She had a strange tattoo there that the tail didn’t quite cover. It was of a skull, with a snake’s body emerging from its mouth and looping down to her wrist. In another country she would have covered it, but the Death Eaters had never borne much influence Stateside, and even in leftist New York few would be likely to recognize it. Locking the door behind her, she put her keys into the small purse already containing her wallet, Walkman, a canister of bear mace, and a long, thin wooden wand. She plugged in her headphones and loped gingerly down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

“Oh, _sweet_ fucking baby _Jesus_.”

The noon light was blinding and the heat at its peak, and she fought nausea and winced, closing her eyes and massaging her temples for a few seconds, before proceeding to the heavily graffitied downtown six train. She stood, leaning on a pole, for a few stops, ignoring a homeless man whose repeated comments on what he’d like to do to those tits were audible even over the Iron Maiden CD blaring in her ears, before returning into the assault of heat and light in Soho. Two men were already there, and she waved.

“Did you puke this morning too?” asked one of them, a lanky Black man in a _NYU School Of Medicine_ t-shirt, wrapping her in a one-armed hug without letting go of the other man’s hand.

“Good morning to you too, Eliot. Ladies don’t puke. Do we have a reservation?”

“It’s one PM on a Thursday, CJ,” said the other man, dark-haired and very pale with piercing blue eyes and a long scar on one cheek. He looked the perkiest of the trio, and spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent. “I think we’ll be fine. Why didn’t you apparate?”

“Svetlana.”

“You can take animals with, uh… portkeys, though, right?” asked Eliot, looking hopefully between the other two.

“Very good,” beamed Dima.

“Stop being cute. It’s rude to rub it in that I’m single, you know. Fuck, I’d commit a felony for some carbs and a bloody Mary.”

“You really should drink less,” commented Eliot once they were seated and CJ was on her third cocktail. It was in a tone that denoted a weary criticism, inoffensive and somehow endearing for its sincerity.

She held both middle fingers up at him, and the two men laughed. Their brunch ritual was complete. “Eat a dick, Sanchez,” she retorted through a mouthful of avocado toast.

“Annoyed… by… comments… on… alcohol… use,” he retorted, taking notes on an imaginary clipboard. He winked, glanced over his shoulder, and added in an undertone, “Besides, that was, like, two hours ago. Don’t want to put Dmitriy here through his paces too early.”

“Before or after you puked? I’m a doctor now too, you know.”

“Sure, a PhD. Call me when you’ve delivered a baby and taken out an appendix in the same shift.”

Passing the snake on her shoulder half a piece of bacon, she rolled her eyes. “So I stop people from killing each other instead of intervening after the fact. It’s preventative medicine.”

Both men laughed. “Speaking of,” asked Dmitriy, “have you heard back from Bellevue yet?”

“Nah. I’m still stringing Riker’s along but I might have to just take that one. Which would be fine—“ she paused to drain her glass and signal to the waiter for a refill, “—I’d just prefer _clinical forensic_ to _forensic clinical_ , you know?”

“Your tolerance for crazy astounds me. God, I hated my psych rotation.”

She raised an eyebrow and raised her left arm in a notable sort of way. “You know my background. The only emotion I have anymore is adrenaline.”

“Adrenaline’s not an emotion.”

“Excuse me, I’m the psychologist here. Go read an EKG or— _motherfucker!_ ” She had shouted the last word, drawing a few glances from the other diners, and her right hand clenched tightly over the tattoo on her arm. The faded lines had gone as black as if they had been burned on that minute, and the skin around them was red and inflamed. When she looked up, still grimacing in pain, her expression was steely and sober as if she hadn’t consumed a single glass of vodka-infused V8.

Dmitriy’s expression was easier to read. Horror was visible on every line of his face, in the whites of his eyes around the blue irises. “It’s back? _He’s_ back? No. No—I thought he was dead.”

“Horcruxes—“ she snapped. “I’ve been saying for years. Fuck! I forgot how much this hurts.”

“What are you going to—“

“You know what I’m _going to_.”

“You can’t go back there.”

“I have to kill him.” She had started unwinding the python, who looked as concerned as a snake could and was very reluctant to leave her shoulders. She hissed and struck at the woman—“No, how about we _don’t_ do that, thanks bitch—“ and her handler continued, “I’ll give Dima a spare key—take Svetlana back to my place when you can. Take care of her—she’s low-maintenance, I’ll explain later what to—“

“CJ, that’s insane,” interrupted Eliot, who was glancing back and forth between the other two. “Besides, how do you know…”

“Too long to explain. Shit, shit, shit! I have to go.” She took out her wallet and slammed a credit card on the table. “Stay here and pay. Dima, come with me, meet Eliot back at your apartment after and give him the four-one-one. El—I love you, you’re a great person and a great doctor, stay safe, if I don’t see you again—“

“What the hell do you mean, if?”

“I mean _if_. I have to take out the head of a fascist death cult, not go on a fucking picnic. I love you, tell your sister to keep her head down. America’s okay for now, but if things get bad get out of the country. Not Europe. South America should be okay if you teach Dima Spanish, Australia’s safe for now, or New Zealand, or—goodbye.”

With a weak smile, she seized Dmitriy’s arm and bolted from the restaurant. The two ducked into the relative seclusion of Mercer street and disapparated. Then, they were back in her apartment.

“I’m an idiot,” she muttered. “I’ll have to explain—I’ll go to the aurors—no, Dumbledore, the Order, the aurors won’t know yet—can you apparate into Hogwarts? Shit. I should have prepared for this. Fucking Mark’s been getting darker for ages. I hope Draco’s been practicing his occlumency but he never listens to me. Dima, pass me my bag—no, the big one—thanks. How much does Eliot know? Fucking muggles. Probably has no idea how bad this could get. You do, you’re muggle-born, you remember how it was at Durmstrang—get it into his head. If they know we’re friends all three of us will be tortured and killed. Christ. Fuck! Merlin, _Merlin_ , can’t say Christ or they’ll—couldn’t have timed this worse, could they? Well, fuck Bellevue and Riker’s, I guess, terrorism has no job security—“ a nervous, shrill laugh burst from her lips and she looked around wildly, pulling a suitcase out from under a full-size bed and starting to throw clothing in it by handfuls.

“You don’t have to go,” the man said quietly. He had gone very pale, and was sitting on the couch, chin in his hands. “You could play dead. Or—“

“Couldn’t live with myself if I did. If this thing keeps burning until I get there I’m going to cut my fucking arm off. Call JFK, ask about the next flight to London—no, anywhere in England. If they don’t have anything today, call Newark and Laguardia. If _they_ don’t have anything today, radiate out through the East Coast until someone does. It doesn’t matter how much, I can’t use American muggle money there anyway...”

Standing up, he unhooked the phone from the wall, flipped through a book of contacts, and dialed. He twisted the cord nervously around his finger.

“Hello? Next flight to England? Yes, any airport. Oh, okay. Thanks anyway.“ Dmitriy hung up, shook his head, and dialed again. “Laguardia has one to Manchester. Lufthansa, business class, eight hundred twenty-four dollars. It’s at four.”

“That soon? I’ll have to… Fine. I’ll take it. I left my credit card with El, put the flight on yours and use mine for whatever else until you’ve broken even. They charge my rent automatically but any other issues, put it on the card.” CJ continued her nervous monologue, pacing back and forth and throwing miscellany haphazardly into a suitcase while the man paid over the phone, ended the call, and sat back down, wide-eyed and tense. “Jesu— _Merlin_ —if I only had time to prepare I could get more things—wizarding medicine doesn’t—and clothes, I need new clothes, I’ll last three seconds in front of my parents in this—at least shoes transfer pretty well. Bless Lucius for buying me the fancy robes, one set’ll get me by okay until… Just let Svetlana loose in Tompkins Square to get a squirrel every few weeks and she’ll be fine, she gets bored in the tank, usually I let her have the run of the place and just leave some heating pads out. And she likes snacks, eggs and burgers are her favorite but not too often or she’ll get fat. She likes the beach, but not Coney Island, people try to touch her. You have your spare key, right? Anything breaks in this shithole, just put it on the card. I’ll call you from public phones when I can. God I need a fucking drink.” Sitting on the suitcase, she zipped it, tossed the bag over her shoulder, and extended the stuffed suitcase’s handle. Her dark eyes were frightened but resolute. “Thanks, love. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Try not to die. Call me, alright?”

“When I can.”

The two embraced tightly, and the woman disappeared with a loud snap. She drank on the plane until the stewardess flat-out refused to give her another refill. When the plane landed, after she’d changed in an airport bathroom stall into an evening gown and a set of formal witch’s robes and prepared to disapparate, she did puke. It was not because of the alcohol.


	3. 3

The building, with its laboratories and offices and labyrinthine halls, had been dusty that first night, many of the valuable artifacts removed by meddling aurors, but otherwise it looked just as it had fourteen years ago. The Death Eaters who had responded to the summons—fewer than Severus would have anticipated—had been there all night, not only cleaning and replenishing supplies but being, one by one, interrogated. Severus’s own turn had been better than he had dared to hope. This was not saying much. Several days had passed since, and his joints still felt full of broken glass when he moved in certain ways. Headquarters, however, had been quickly returned to its former glory, albeit without the quantity of people that had once occupied it, and the old wooden conference table had been replaced with a longer one, made of some kind of glossy black stone. It was that table around which the small group now sat, falling immediately silent but for the scraping of chairs being pushed back as everyone rose at the Dark Lord’s entrance. He settled himself in the chair at the head of the table, and a few began to reclaim their seats as well until he fixed them with his paralyzing stare.

“You may notice,” he said by way of introduction, “that we have an empty chair. If everyone to my right would please move one seat down, I have someone here who will be working with us.” A few nervous glances were exchanged, but those on that side obeyed, shifting away from him to free up the chair at his right hand. “Carina, you may enter.”

Both Lucius and Narcissa gasped aloud when the newcomer entered the room, but they were not alone. Even Severus’s facade fractured for an instant with a sharp inhale. Those who had known Voldemort before he first came to power, before he was ruined by curses and the decay and shattering of his soul, saw the similarity immediately. She was tall, pale, regal, with the full lips, dark eyes, and sculpted cheekbones that the Dark Lord had possessed when he was Tom Riddle. The severe crop of her dark chestnut hair would have rendered her almost androgynous, were it not for her decidedly feminine body. It was impossible to ignore, clearly displayed under a dark green gown that clung to her like a second skin, accentuating long, athletic legs and shoulders, small waist, smooth curves of breasts and hips.

“This,” the Dark Lord continued, gesturing for her to occupy the newly-vacated seat at his right, “is my heir. Some of you—“ he nodded at the Malfoys, “—already know her. Her name is Carina Juno Black. You will address her as _my Lady_. She has been recruiting individuals sympathetic to our cause to cells in Eastern Europe and North America during my absence, and it is my pleasure to welcome her back into our British sphere.” He gave the woman a faint, cold smile, and the one she returned was identical. “Care to introduce yourself?”

A faint thrill ran down Severus’s spine. In all the years he had been familiar with Voldemort, it had never occurred to him that there were _more of them_. He had seen _Bellatrix’s daughter, poor thing_ once or twice at the Malfoys’ manor on his sporadic summer visits, a quiet, watchful girl with a gift for fading into the shadows as soon as someone entered the room, but had always assumed that her father had been Rodolphus, that her surname had been Lestrange. What was it his own father had used to say? _Don’t assume, boy. Makes an_ ass _of_ you _and_ me. He felt a sudden and ludicrous urge to laugh.

“Certainly. It’s my honor to be here.” Her voice was lower than her father’s, velvety, but possessing the same capacity for demanding immediate attention without increased volume. At closer range, directly across the table from her, Severus noticed two small scars on her face, the longer one across her left eyebrow, and a tiny, almost invisible one at the corner of her upper lip. He wondered how she’d gotten them. “As you’ve been told, I was overseas for the past several years, increasing our network and conducting… research.” It struck Severus that he had never before heard a pureblood, let alone a Death Eater, use such a technology-adjacent term as _network_. “I had planned to stay there indefinitely, but my Mark called the same night all of yours did.” That same smile crossed her face without meeting her eyes. “I look forward to working with you. Lucius, Narcissa—I hope it’s no imposition to occupy my former quarters here. Since I’ve obviously returned to the country on short notice, more private living arrangements have yet to be established.”

“Of—of course,” Lucius stammered. He was always pale, but now he was _white_.

“Much appreciated.”

There followed a few more minutes of talk, before, “Tonight’s was a brief one, but the meeting is concluded. I’m sure that you can all understand its importance. Please, socialize. As Carina said, she has looked forward to getting to know you. I would like a private word first, though.”

His tone was their dismissal, and as soon as the door to the meeting room closed, Lucius seized Narcissa’s arm. “That’s not her. It can’t be.”

“It has to be. Who else could it—“

“I don’t know, someone using Polyjuice—Crouch pulled it off this whole year, there could—“

“There would be easier explanations. I think it is, I think it must be—“

“It’s not. That’s not—“

“She lived with you, didn’t she?” Severus interrupted, keeping his voice quiet. “What do you know?”

“Know?” Lucius exhaled a derisive laugh. “Only that she’s the biggest blood traitor since Sirius Black. She went to New York University _,_ Severus. A _muggle school_. And if you show me Carrie speaking for a minute straight without swearing or starting a fight, I’ll bugger myself with my own wand.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Narcissa sighed, then, “And if she’s been tortured…”

“She wouldn’t. You know her better than I do, you know she’d die before letting someone tell her what to do, she’s—“

“You know the Dark Lord’s smarter than that. If he made her feel in control, if he made it seem like her choice…”

“ _She’s_ smarter than _that_. It’s not her.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I must not be as smart as you thought.” All three whirled around to see the topic of their conversation standing, one eyebrow slightly raised and a cold smirk playing at the scarred corner of her mouth, behind them. “Thank you for the hospitality. And if you want further proof that I’m who I say I am, bring Draco and he can verify it.”

“No—no,” breathed Narcissa. “I—we—believe you.”

“How charitable. And I’m afraid I don’t know who _you_ are.”

“Severus Snape,” he breathed, and shook the offered hand.

“Really? The way Draco’s talked about you, I imagined you were older. You’re head of his house, correct?”

“Yes, my Lady. And potions master.”

She laughed. “That’s serendipitous. I’m to be His senior potioneer.”

“Are you really?”

“Boy’s club it may be, but I wouldn’t have expected that kind of shock.”

“No—I mean no offense, my Lady. I’m just… surprised.”

“Why?” Her smile sent a thrill down his spine. It was cold and did not meet her eyes. It was all Riddle’s. He forced himself to return it. “Now, Lucius, would you mind getting a girl a nice cold glass of sauv B?”

Narcissa shot her husband a look that communicated, undoubtedly, _I told you so,_ and hands shaking slightly, he turned to fetch the requested wine. “Car—I’m sorry, my Lady—it’s… been a long time. You look… different.”

“I’m sure. You, on the other hand, haven’t aged a day.”

The woman looked torn between anxiety, humor, and politeness, and finally responded, “Thank you. Draco will be delighted to see you.”

“And I him. I’m surprised he’s not at the table yet.”

“He’s only fourteen!” Blushing at her own defensiveness, she backpedaled, “I’m sorry, my Lady. I only meant that it’s rare for people that young to take the Mark, not that I wouldn’t—of course I’d be honored if—“

The Lady put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’ve no intention of getting you in trouble. I owe you a lot.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa repeated.

“Thank _you_ ,” the younger woman addressed Lucius, who had walked up behind his wife, glass in one hand and bottle of sauvignon blanc in the other, and she took both. The thick green glass appeared to melt as she brushed her thumb across the neck of the bottle just below the cork, and the top few inches of the bottle disappeared when she began to pour. A simple enough spell, but done without a wand and nonverbally, while carrying on an unrelated conversation, it was a clear statement on her competence as a witch. _Someone_ , Severus thought, _around whom to tread very carefully_. She drained, then refilled the glass, and released the bottle to float smoothly across the room and land on an unoccupied windowsill. “I look forward to catching up, but I’ve some more mingling to do. Pleasure to meet you, Severus.” With a small smile, she turned and was immediately in the midst of another conversation. The rush to greet her—especially among the men—was almost comical.

“My Lady—“

“Pleasure to—“

“Welcome back to—“

“My Lady—“

“You look—“

“My Lady—“

The dark-haired man glanced between the Malfoys, and Narcissa turned to her husband. “It’s her.”

“I know. Sauv B? No one else says that.”

“And while you were away…” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you later. We… We talked.”

“What else do you know about her?” Severus reiterated, watching where the Lady stood off to one side, in the middle of another group. “And why didn’t I ever have her at Hogwarts?”

“Because she went to Durmstrang. We thought that it would be better for her not to be under Dumbledore’s eye.” For the first time that night, Lucius smiled. “Count yourself lucky. Karkaroff just about lost his mind trying to keep her in line. Taking illegal Portkeys out to Moscow or Berlin every weekend, wearing awful muggle get-ups everywhere, breaking into the faculty liquor cabinet… We got howlers nearly every weekend.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were putting me on.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

Severus returned his gaze to the woman now in conversation with Thicknesse. Her face was unreadable, a mask of polite interest but just haughty enough to serve as a reminder: I am above you, and your lives are mine. Again, he shivered, and wasn’t entirely sure why.

The post-meeting parties often got raucous, but this one was more so than Severus could remember. A desire to burn off nervous energy post-revival mixed with old friends‘ and lovers‘ reunions. The Dark Lord‘s daughter, though, drove home the point Lucius had made. No more than two hours in, the woman was halfway through her third bottle of wine, swaying slightly and gesticulating as she illustrated some anecdote to Yaxley. The man was nodding patiently but made eye contact with Severus over her head and mouthed, _What the fuck?_ He shrugged in response. This made quite the one-eighty from the ice queen of the meeting and the start of the party, and he was concerned. More than concerned. Scared. He couldn’t remember a time before he’d learned the effect that alcohol had on some people, and it was bad enough when it was his impoverished, underfed mother. Three or four drinks and she’d be almost pleasant, but more than that…

Volatility of that kind was not what the Death Eaters needed in a second in command. The Dark Lord, at least, was—for the most part—predictable. Cold authority, logistics, occasional fury. There was never an illusion that he was your friend, and Severus could tell that Yaxley, despite his laughter at what the young woman was saying, was thinking the same thing. It would be too easy to get comfortable around her. It would be easy to forget who and what she was.

He shivered again, finished his drink, and quietly excused himself. There was someone who needed to know about this.


	4. 4

Hungover though he was, Severus reported to Dumbledore’s office at seven sharp the next morning. Clearly his tolerance had decreased in the ten years since he’d last been to one of the Death Eater parties. “Headmaster. Moody.” His head hurt, he was exhausted, and waves of nausea pummeled his stomach. “You _are_ the real Moody, I assume?”

“Hilarious, Snape.” The man looked a sight less intimidating than his impersonator. Thinner, older. Tired. “News?”

“Yes.” He sat down and took a grateful sip of the water Dumbledore shoved across the desk to him. “The Dark Lord has a new right hand. His daughter, and Bellatrix Lestrange’s if the Malfoys are credible.”

Shock, or at least surprise, would have been his expectation, but they glanced at each other and some understanding seemed to pass through them.

“You know her?”

“Severus,” Dumbledore began, “I would have told you sooner…”

“Would have, but decided otherwise,” he snapped. “How much of a problem will she be?”

“She’s also a spy.”

He closed his eyes, massaging his temples, and thought, _Bullshit_. “You’ll have to go into a bit more depth.” The irritation was clear in his voice, but the other two men only smiled.

“Miss Black returned from the US the day after Lord Voldemort’s return. She went first to my office, but I believe she found my input... unsatisfactory, and continued to Alastor, then Kingsley at the Ministry.”

“Unsatisfactory in what way? How do you know she wasn’t just trying to find something to exploit?”

“You must trust, Severus, that she is sincere.”

“And unsatisfactory,” said Moody with a lopsided grin, “in that she wanted to march straight in there and blow Voldemort’s head off.”

“But she...”

“She is a good actor, Severus, as are you, though I must admit she lacks a degree of your subtlety.” Dumbledore smiled, and the man across from him did not return it.

“If that’s the case, she’s even crazier than I thought. Do you know how much she drank last night? Do you know what she _did_?”

“By the looks of it, she didn’t drink a whole lot more than you did,” Moody quipped.

“She certainly has inherited some of her mother’s volatility, but don’t underestimate her intelligence.”

“So what would you have me do?” he asked flatly, without looking up from his hands.

“For now, nothing that you wouldn’t otherwise. She does not yet know that she has a fellow among the Death Eaters, and although she will be a formidable ally I’d prefer that you keep to the sidelines until you need to do otherwise.”

“And that would be when?”

Dumbledore smiled in the paternal way Severus had always hated. “I have faith in you to come to that decision on your own.”

When he returned to his quarters in the dungeons, he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into bed for another few hours. Instead, he turned to face the bathroom mirror, unbuttoning his shirt. He was nearly as slim as he’d been in his twenties—a combination of low appetite and fast metabolism had always kept him there without much effort—but his muscle tone had indisputably decreased. To be expected, with the absence of the constant physical and magical fighting that had characterized his adolescence, but irksome nonetheless. He’d have to start exercising. Swearing under his breath, he buttoned the shirt back up, drank a few vials of basic medicinal potions, and sat down, waiting for the pounding in his head and newest bout of nausea to fade.

 _She’s a fucking spy_ , he thought. _I’ll give her two weeks to blow it_. She’d had him convinced, but that was over one meeting. If Lucius ran his mouth to anyone else about the biggest blood traitor since Sirius Black she wouldn’t last long, and there wasn’t much Lucius enjoyed more than running his mouth. Between that and the amount she’d drank...

The spy in question was just waking up at that point, in much more comfortable a state than her counterpart at Hogwarts. Stretching languidly in bed, she summoned a house elf for iced coffee and ran her fingers through her hair. The silk of her sheets and the sweet, cold coffee and the sun streaming through the window felt surreal in contrast to the reality of the situation— _call it what it is, CJ_ , she thought. _Right now you’re comfortable, tonight you could be dead. Or tomorrow night, or the night after, or next year_. She remembered Dima pronouncing something Kafka-e-skew and almost laughed out loud. Then she almost cried. Then she thought, _Get it together_ , and sipped her coffee, swinging her legs off of the bed and watching the white peacocks investigate the grass and fountains for bugs below the window.


	5. 5

When CJ had stepped off the Knight Bus at the end of her fifth year at Durmstrang, a small boy had come pelting up to her with a squeal of excitement. “Ceej! CJ! Ceej! I _missed_ you!”

“Hey, Coco! Who let you get so tall?” She lifted him up, swung him in a circle by his elbows, and scooped him up to sit on her hip as though he weighed nothing. A few _aww_ s came from the bus. Her attention did not waver from the boy, and she kissed his forehead as he snuggled, beaming, into her shoulder. “Kept your parents safe for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good boy. And the dreams?”

He hesitated, eyes leaving her face for the first time. “Not so bad.”

“So bad?”

“It’s just I can’t see everything all at once, so there could always be something behind me. I wish I was an owl so I could turn my head all the way around.”

“Well, now I’m back. If anyone tries to get you, know what I’ll do?”

“What?”

CJ drew her lips back from her teeth in a mock snarl. “I’ll show him your big sister is much scarier than some stupid monster.” The boy smiled, and she returned it, again kissing his tousled silver-blond hair. “Just remember it’s not real, okay? No matter how scared you are, you’ll be safe when you wake up. Want to help with my bags? I can’t carry you _and_ my stuff anymore. Stop growing so fast.”

“No! I want to be tall. Like father.” He dropped from her hip and put on an oversized backpack, doubling up under the weight.

“I’ll get that. How about you guard my purse? And take Morgy?”

Looking relieved, the boy nodded, and traded the backpack for a much lighter leather shoulder bag. “Morgy? Morgana?” A large, fluffy brown owl emerged from behind the trunk and hopped up onto the boy’s shoulder, making him squeal as its feathers tickled his face. The trio walked hand in hand towards a pair of blonde adults standing further back on the lawn, and Draco asked hesitantly, “Ceej? Who’s the Dark Lord?”

She turned towards him so fast it strained her neck. “Where’d you hear about him?”

“My parents. After they thought I was asleep, I was going to the bathroom and I heard them talking, and they were saying—I heard your name, so I was listening, and they said something about somewhere called Azkaban, and...” The teenager had gone very pale, and stopped walking. “Did I say something bad?”

“No. No, it’s not you.” She forced a smile, which the boy gratefully returned, shoulders slumping with relief. “It’s just... well, it’s complicated. And I was hoping you wouldn’t find out until you were a bit older.”

“I’m old enough!”

“Guess you’ll have to be. Listen, I don’t want to talk about this in front of your parents. Remind me when we’re alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

It was that night, after a long dinner of catching up, that the youngest members of the Malfoy household lay in CJ’s bed next to each other. “You promised you’d tell me. About the Dark Lord and Azkaban.” Draco’s thumb found his mouth for a few seconds before he jerked his hand away, remembering his parents’ admonitions.

“I know. It’s just complicated, and I’m trying to figure out where to start. You wouldn’t remember when I came to live here, you were a baby. But I moved in with you and your parents because my parents were... They weren’t good people. They did some really fu—really bad things.”

“Like killing people, or what?”

“They killed a _lot_ of people. Other things, too. And when I was ten, my father—people called him the Dark Lord—died, and a couple months later my mother—your mother’s big sister—was arrested and went to Azkaban.”

“What’s Azkaban? Father talks about it like—“

“It’s a prison.”

“So… if he’s dead, and she’s in prison, why would you…”

“I’m getting there.” She pushed his hair off of his face and he snuggled closer, tiny white fist clenching on her shirt. “There were a lot of people working for my parents, and the Ministry didn’t know what to do with all of them. Some were clearly really involved, and really into it, but some—like your parents—just… got in too deep.”

“My parents?”

“That’s how they know about... everything.”

“Did they kill anyone? Did you?”

She only hesitated for a moment, and the boy didn’t notice. “No. No, Coco. I told you, they weren’t really into it. Anyway, after my father died, I had to go to the Ministry and tell them everything I thought would be important. I got a lot of people arrested, and a lot of people would… want to hurt me if they got out. Or if He came back to power, He’d be angry that I’d given people up, since I was supposed to be… Well, I’d be in trouble.”

“But you said he was dead.” The boy’s eyes were round with fear, and she squeezed his shoulder.

“I know. I know—it just scared me a bit to think about.”

“But you _never_ get scared. Not even when there’s a big spider.”

“Nah, not spiders.” She smiled at the boy, and the fear on his face softened slightly. “But everyone gets scared sometimes.”

“Ceej?”

“Hm?”

“What if he _does_ come back?”

“You’ll be okay.”

“But what about you? And mum, and father?”

“Your parents and I can look after ourselves.”

“But what if—“

“Shh, shh. Don’t worry about any of that.”

“It’s not like I’m trying to,” he mumbled crossly, and looked up again, wide-eyed, his lower lip trembling. His thumb found his mouth again. “What happens to me if you all die?”

“That won’t happen.”

“I know, but... Can I sleep here? With you?”

“I’m tired, I think it’d be better if—“

“Please?” His voice was shaking and his eyes were very bright. “I’ll be good, I promise, I just don’t want to be alone.”

She sighed and pulled him close to her. In the months she’d been at school, she’d forgotten how anxious the boy could be. So bold and confident in some ways, but in others… CJ had yet to enroll in her first psychology class _,_ but half a lecture in, one of her developmental psych professors would mention _resilience_ , and Draco was anything but. He knew that his parents’ money could get him out of most problems, but in that lesson was another; that he was powerless beyond his father’s influence. “I really freaked you out, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Coco. Okay, you can sleep here.”

He sniffled into her t-shirt, wrapping one leg tightly around her waist and both arms around her neck. “‘S okay. I just feel safer with you.”

“Good. You _are_ safe with me.”

And he had been, at least until the summer before he was to start at Hogwarts, when CJ was home for the last summer before finishing her bachelor’s degree overseas early, when there started to be rumors of something strange in Albania. His parents mentioned the Dark Lord more and more often, which inevitably put his cousin in an irritable, paranoid mood and she’d disappear, sometimes for days, and come back disheveled and exhausted. She and Lucius started fighting almost constantly, and Draco, who had always kept his head down during their arguments when he was younger, found himself siding with his father and not always sure why. Maybe it was because the man praised his son less and less as he got older, and agreeing with him was one way to get one of those infrequent smiles. Maybe it was because his sister—his cousin—just didn’t make sense, defending Mudbloods and Muggles all the time. She was a pureblood, too, why did she care?

“Your taste in friends doesn’t much credit you—“ Lucius had snarled, and the girl—young woman, if barely—had spat back,

“It’s sure as hell better than yours. I’m not stupid, I—“

“Then stop acting like it!”

“I thought you were supposed to have been Imperiused? Wasn’t that what you told the judge? Sounds to me like you’ve pretty much drank the kool-aid on my father’s—“

“What are you implying?”

“Sounds like you were as into the Death Eater bullshit as anyone!”

Lucius had hit her, open hand across the face, and for the first time Draco saw not his beloved father and as-good-as-sister but two competent and dangerous adults. CJ’s dark eyes were blazing, her jaw set and knuckles white; a muscle in Lucius’s neck was twitching.

Draco shrank a little in his chair. “CJ,” he pleaded, almost inaudibly, “why do you care? Why do you get so angry about all this Mudblood stuff when—“

“Don’t you ever say Mudblood again. Don’t you dare.”

“But they’re just—“

“They’re people. They’re the same as us.” Lucius made a derisive scoff and the woman took a step towards him. He did not step back. “My best friend’s muggle-born.”

“I thought I was your best friend.” He hated how petulant it sounded, how juvenile, and he knew that rationally of course he wasn’t, she was nearly twice his age and she’d been gone half the time for the last decade and he didn’t even know half of what she got up to when they weren’t together, but... She had always been his, his closest confidant and advisor, who didn’t criticize him the way his father did or treat him like he was made of porcelain the way his mother did. So many nights they had stayed up late talking and laughing and being kids, sneaking caviar and cheese out of the kitchen and CJ going through bottle after bottle of wine and giving him little sips if she was feeling charitable. Why couldn’t it be like that again? Why couldn’t she just leave well enough alone?

Her shoulders fell a little from their defensive rise. “You’re my little cousin, Coco. It’s different.”

“Don’t call me Coco. I’m not a kid anymore.”

She smiled wryly. “Sure. But I’m pissed off at you because I love you. You’re better than this.”

“Better than what?” hissed Lucius. “Better than me?”

What she had said next he wouldn’t fully comprehend for another several years. “Look at our arms and look at his. He’s shaping up to be.”

After their fight, the boy had cut her off on her way out. “Please, Ceej, why can’t you just let him… Why do you always have to bring things up that you know will just get him angry?”

“Because there are things that are more important than getting along.”

“Like family?”

“There are things that are more important than family.”

His eyes had watered. “Don’t be angry. He takes it out on me. When you fight with him he takes it out on me.”

“What? How? Does he hurt you?”

“Not physically. I mean, not usually. But he can be so _mean_ , and I just… he’s always saying I’m disappointing. Everything I do he looks at me like he’s so embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“That reflects on him, Draco, not you. It’s not your fault.”

“But I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.” The tears were overflowing now and he hated them. “I just try to be whatever he wants and it’s never enough, and…” Voice breaking, he turned his back on her. “You don’t care anyway.”

“Of course I care. I know he’s your father and you want his approval, but… You’ll understand when you’re older. It’s more important that you respect yourself than that he respects you.”

“I’ll never respect myself.”

“Don’t say never. You’re at a hard age. You’ll go to school and make some friends, and—“

“I only know Crabbe and Goyle, and they’re—they’re alright, but I can’t talk to them. I always have to act like I’m… different.”

“Then fuck them. You’re a smart kid, you’re funny, you’ll meet new friends.”

“You don’t understand!”

“What don’t I understand?”

“I don’t know. Everything. You act like the world is so dangerous and you don’t even care.”

She crouched down and took his hands in hers. Just two or three years ago that would have made them the same height. Now he was taller. “The world _is_ dangerous. Don’t be paranoid, but don’t be reckless.”

“You’re reckless! What d’you call running around all night, getting drunk and coming home all—“

“I’m meaner than you and I’m stronger than you. You’re young and naive, and—“

“I’m not a baby!”

“No, you’re not, but you’re not an adult either, and there’s a lot you don’t know. You don’t know how lucky you are to be sweet and soft. Your father doesn’t understand that. I didn’t get to be soft, neither did he.”

“I don’t want to be _soft_ , I don’t want to be weak, I just—“

“I didn’t say you were weak. They’re different things.”

“Please stay home tonight. You’re moving soon. I miss you already and you haven’t even gone.” She hugged him, and he stiffened in her embrace, trying to show her how tough and strong he could be, but then she kissed his pale forehead and he started to cry. “I just want him to like me. He doesn’t have to love me. I just want him not to be embarrassed by me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Just do your best, Coco. Get the best grades you can, play Quidditch, try not to be so hard on yourself.”

“I wish I were like you. He yells at you but he likes you. You were there when he said he wished you were his kid and not me. I shouldn’t have been born. He hates me.”

“He doesn’t like _me_. He likes what I represent.”

His first two years at Hogwarts, he’d received weekly letters from her, about her studies and friends. They always contained American sweets or little souvenirs, and ended with _be good and don’t run your mouth._ He’d rolled his eyes with the kind of confidence reserved for the naïve, but hadn’t mentioned her except to Pansy Parkinson, because she was his best friend and could keep a secret anyway. If his cousin didn’t want to be known, that was her business. His third and fourth years, though, the letters grew more sobering. _I can’t explain to you how important it is that you learn occlumency,_ several had said. _Don’t worry about your grades if you have to choose. If Lucius gives you trouble about it blame me._ One had read _I hope I’m wrong but if I’m not there’s something big coming,_ and more and more of them, _I love you I love you I love you, Coco. I might start acting like I don’t, but I swear I do. You’ll understand when you’re older, but for now—don’t tell your father ANYTHING, and don’t let ANYONE in._

She had returned to England at the end of that year, had apparently been interrogated for hours, but the first time that he saw her since that first summer before Hogwarts she was regal in black and green silk and velvet and lace. Draco stepped towards her, about to shriek in delight, and froze, confused, when she widened her eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head. His eyes had gone round with comprehension when the Dark Lord himself entered behind her, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. She’d given his shoulder a gentle squeeze as she passed him, and he’d swallowed both fear and pride and wondered how the firecracker he’d known was able to keep her face so neutral. It was the end of that summer, just over a year past the anniversary of Voldemort’s revival, when things got bad. He was almost sixteen, basically an adult, and things had been going well until, until…

His father had gone out on a raid. He hadn’t come home. Narcissa had paced and panicked and not let her son out of her sight, and then four aurors had materialized in the atrium. _Your husband was found in the Department of Mysteries, with known Death Eaters. The Minister of Magic reported seeing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named there as well, though he disapparated. Your husband was not authorized to be in the Department of Mysteries. Your husband is going to await trial at Azkaban. We have questions for you._

Mad-Eye Moody—though it wasn’t the Mad-Eye Moody Draco had hated as a professor, that had, it seemed, been someone entirely different—had interrogated him. After three minutes he was in tears, but the man only raised his voice. He grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise, shoved up the sleeve. _“I’m not one of them, please, I don’t know anything.”_ There were threats. They would give his parents life sentences and empty the family vault at Gringotts and he would go into foster care. He would be placed with people who would hate him. Did he know the things that happened to kids in foster care? He couldn’t imagine. A pretty little twink like him wouldn’t last three days. _“I don’t know anything, I told you._ ”

His cousin stepped into the room, head high, regal, and Moody did not move, but the bright blue eye swiveled into the side of his head.

“Alastor.”

“Black.”

“He’s fifteen. Ease up on the boy.”

“He’s not giving us anything.”

“Because he doesn’t know anything. The Dark Lord doesn’t consider children worthy of hearing his plans. Leave him alone.”

Moody stepped back, lip curled, glaring at Draco with complete loathing, and the boy cowered, watching his cousin. The man approached her. “You vouch for him? You’re responsible for keeping the little shit in line.” Then, miraculously, he left.

Draco focused on his hands, shaking in his lap. “Thank you, my Lady.”  
“Don’t worry about calling me that. Not when my father isn’t here.” She had reached out and brushed her fingertips against his cheek. “Be smart, alright? Keep your head down. You did well.”

When he took the Mark it felt like his arm was being scorched down to the bone, but what hurt more than the brand was Carina’s eyes on him, unflinching and entirely void of emotion. Aside from a soft gasp and his watery eyes, he had controlled his reactions until he was back in his bedroom, when an old memory floated unbidden to the forefront of his consciousness.

_“You think he’s better than me?”_

_“Look at our arms and look at his.”_

He had screamed into his pillow, curled up on the too-large bed, heart racing and left forearm throbbing, before collapsing into silent sobs. She was right, she had been right all along, and here he was and it was murder or die, and his oldest confidante was only a room away and he could not go to her. _I promise I’m watching out for you,_ her letters had said _, I love you so much, don’t forget that_ , but even the Dark Lord had shown a glimmer of sadistic pleasure when he flinched from the heat, even his mother had winced and Snape’s lips had thinned for a moment and Bellatrix had glowed with pride, but CJ, who had always been exuberant, feisty, emotional—her eyes were as blank as a shark’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christ i love writing draco. especially as a baby, what a lil nugget


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a minute! I was out of town last weekend and this week was unexpectedly busy. The good news is I have the next 10 or so chapters done but for some editing, so you can expect pretty regular updates from here on for a while.

By the end of the summer after the revival, Severus was convinced of CJ’s competence as a spy. After Potter’s semi-coherent attempt to warn him to the Dark Lord’s capture of Sirius Black, he had tracked them to the forest to head them off just in time to see the last mounted thestral take flight. He veered to Grimmauld Place, and Tonks collided with him on her way out the front door. “I know!” she had yelped over her shoulder. “We got a tip!”

Late that evening, he had felt the Mark burn and knew to the second when the plan had gone awry. Immediately he crossed the school border into the forest and apparated to headquarters. But for the Dark Lord, he was alone, and he did not speak as the man paced. He did not need legilimency to understand that his master was livid. Narcissa Malfoy appeared, her knuckles white on Draco’s shoulders. The boy looked confused and embarrassed, and Severus wanted to smack him, little wannabe that he was. He might have been the kid’s godfather, but it didn’t make it easier to deal with his arrogant sureness that he would _be a great Death Eater like father someday_. Many long heartbeats in silence followed. The woman’s eyes met Severus’s, pleading, desperate.

Then another sharp crack came from outside, and the door unlocked, opened, and slammed behind a black-clad figure. The Dark Lord’s daughter slammed the door behind her, shrugged off her cloak and hood, and whipped off her mask. She had left with a half-dozen others. She returned alone, short hair stiff and matted with blood on one side, limping slightly. “We were ambushed, my Lord. Potter didn’t come alone, and someone must have notified the Order. Dumbledore cornered everyone but me. I barely got out—I don’t know where the others are. Lucius—” her eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the Malfoys, then back. “Lucius dropped the prophecy and it shattered. I heard part of it, but not all.”

Voldemort whirled around and strode so close to her that, had he one, his nose would have touched hers. With the two in such close proximity, Severus noted with a numb sort of interest that his daughter was quite tall, less than a head shorter than the Dark Lord and perhaps only an inch or two shorter than himself. “What did you hear?”

She lowered her eyes. “Only the last line. Something about ‘hand of other, for neither can live while the other—‘“

“—Survives,” Voldemort hissed, then spun away from her in a flurry of robes. “Narcissa!? Do you defend your husband’s incompetence?”

“Please, my Lord. If he failed you it was a mistake, he would never have—“

“Silence, witch! Fail he did, and so significantly as to postpone my rule at best and jeopardize it at worst. He will pay.” The woman’s lips thinned, and her grip on her son tightened further. “Draco.”

For the first time that night, fear crossed the boy’s face, and Severus felt a rush of harsh schadenfreude that he had finally descended to planet Earth. “My Lord?”

“You may approach me. It is time for you to become a man and take your father’s place. Give me your arm.”

Narcissa opened her mouth as if to protest. Then, as her only child stepped forward, she closed it without a sound. Draco’s chin was held high. Were it not for the visible tremor in his hands, he would have seemed entirely resolute and unafraid as he knelt and rolled up his left sleeve.

Something in his cousin’s face tightened when Voldemort pressed one finger to the boy’s pale skin. Draco shot her an inscrutable glance, but she kept her eyes straight ahead as the hiss and smell of burning flesh reached them. His teeth clenched and his breathing quickened but he did not cry out. Neither had Severus when he took the Mark, though the pain had been immense.

The Dark Lord smiled. “Congratulations, Draco.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“I have a task for which I have deemed you suitable. But first—Carina, Severus, go to the Ministry. If you are able, silence the press. It may yet be too late, but I would prefer my return to power to be announced on my terms.”

The woman stood, and Severus followed her out on to the street. Leaning back against a wall, she produced a small bottle of liquor from inside her robes and took a long draught. “Go home, Severus.”

“My Lady, He—“

“I’ll scope it out but it’s already too late. Go home.”

He looked at her, pretty face dark with blood at one temple. “What will you tell Him?”

“That you were with me.”

For a moment he hesitated, then, “Alright.” He disapparated, but not to the border of Hogwarts, nor to his house in Cokeworth. From a few blocks away, he watched her empty the bottle and throw it listlessly into the gutter, where it broke. When she began to walk, he followed.

She did not turn south towards the Ministry. After a short while he realized that she did not, in fact, seem to have any intention of going there. It seemed she had anticipated a tail, for she wound through London streets seemingly at random, at times making sharp turns or doubling back. She flitted in and out of stores without purchasing anything except for a cheap bottle of Waitrose wine, which she unscrewed mid-stride and drank as she walked. After nearly twenty minutes, she ducked into the shadow of a doorway and removed her Death Eater robes. Had he not seen her do so and put them into a bag slung over her shoulder, he would hardly have recognized her. She was wearing muggle clothes, and more bizarrely still, she was wearing them _well_. Purebloods were _never_ able to grasp even the basics of muggle fashion, and here she was, and in Doc Martens, jeans, and a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt she could have blended in in any casual bar—and, in fact, it was towards a muggle bar that she now walked. Finally, she looked around warily, and stepped—of all things—into a phone booth.

Severus approached, close to the wall, cloak blending into the shadows, until he was just close enough to overhear her.


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find the Death of Stalin quote you win

“Pick up, pick up, you lazy assholes," she hissed into the pay phone, "Pick—Dima! It’s me, CJ—is Eliot awake?” There was a pause, then, “Yeah, I’m okay. Actually—“

She spoke for nearly ten minutes, of wonderfully mundane things. He heard the words _doctor_ and _taxi_ and _plane_ and thought, my God, she really is a spy. When she hung up, he hesitated, but it was now or never, and they were to meet the next day anyway. Emerging from the shadows, Severus raised his mask, took her arm, and had just enough time to say “ _What_ the _barreling fuck_ are you _thinking_!?” before there was a soft hiss and his face and lungs were on fire. When he doubled up, his legs went out from under him and he was immobilized kneeling on the ground before the pain subsided, although he was still coughing hard. _Shouldn’t have surprised her_ , he thought. _Well, that’s me fucked._  
“Talk.“

Looking up, his eyes found her wand an inch from his face. It flicked and he breathed again, but she did not move it away. Incredulous, forgetting all manners and reason, he hissed, “What was—my Lady—a _phone booth_?”

“What do you know?” Her voice was ice. Honesty was not instinctive to him, and he hesitated for an instant before she continued, deadly soft, “If I have to rip your mind apart to find out I will. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

And he knew that she would. Slowly, breathing hard, he began to speak. “I knew you were a spy since the day after I met you.”

“I could have you executed just for implying that.”

“But you won’t.”

“Not yet. If you’d told my father, he’d have believed you and I’d be dead or he wouldn’t’ve and you’d be. Why doesn’t he know?”

“Because I heard it from Moody.”

Her head tilted to the side and one eyebrow rose in such obvious interest it was almost comical.

“My Lady, I’m with the Order as well.”

“I’m going to use legilimency on you,” she had the courtesy to warn him, and then she was in his head. Showing her the things he’d hidden for so long from mental invasion was Herculean, but he managed. Dumbledore; a year and a half of Order meetings; even, unbearably, excruciating though it was, his closest and only real friend. When she retreated, leaving him shivering and feeling oddly exposed, her face was softer, and he felt the binding spells drop. “You’re a very good occlumens.” She extended a hand to help him up, and he took it, feeling electricity radiate down his spine. Her skin was too warm and soft for the firmness of her grip.

“Thanks,” he panted, standing and brushing dust and a dead leaf off his knees. He hadn’t been so near her before, hadn’t realized that she was only an inch or two shorter than him, or that in the streetlight her eyes shone almost amber or that the scar on her eyebrow was in fact not a straight line but a curved one. “Did you just _mace_ me?”

“Yes. Sorry. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“No disrespect intended, my Lady, but I don’t trust you.”

“Do me a favor, Severus. The _my Lady_ bullshit—that was my father’s idea, not mine. It’s CJ. If you absolutely _have_ to use a title it’s Doctor. And why not? The Order does.” She grinned wolfishly.

“What if it hadn’t been me who’d followed you? You could’ve blown the entire thing.” The fear and confusion of the last few minutes was slowly turning back to anger.

At this she actually laughed. “I would have lied.”

“How would you have covered that _blatantly_ muggle conversation!? How would you have covered what you’re wearing? Or what you’re—Merlin, my La—CJ—you could have killed us both! You’re overconfident! You’re reckless!” He was shouting now, all the frustration of a year’s suppressed knowledge boiling over, and the fact that she was—“You’re still bloody smiling! Do you have any _idea_ what’s at stake? I thought you seemed intelligent, I thought you seemed reasonable and— _why_ do they trust you!? You’re insane, you’re drunk half the time, you’re—do you have a conscience at all!? Have you been feeding your father information right back as you have the Order? Risk your own damn neck if you want, but don’t drag the entirety of Wizarding Europe into it!”

Her face was calm and neutral by the time he had yelled himself hoarse a few minutes later, and he glared at her, shaking his sheets of long dark hair out of his face. “Do you feel better?” she asked, in the tone of a cashier trying to reason with an irate and unreasonable customer.

“Not particularly.”

“Well, let me help. First, take off that cloak, you look ridiculous here in muggle town.” Still glaring, he took it off and she put it into her purse, then sat down on a stoop and patted the cement next to her. It had been a long time since he’d looked at someone like that and not gotten a reaction. He sat. “Do you know anything about statistics?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant,” he snapped.

“It is. Do you?”

“Some.”

“Good. I took some stats classes in university, but I was horrible, so we’re probably about at the same level. Let’s discuss probability. First we have two options. One; my father’s set a tail on me. Two; He hasn’t. For argument’s sake let’s say that’s fifty-fifty, although personally I doubt He would. Now, if that’s the case, we have three options.” She held up three fingers. Her nails were long and painted dark red. “There are thirty-four Death Eaters, myself included. I’d say there are five, without me, who he’d assign something that important. My mother, Yaxley, Dolohov, you, and himself. Assuming equal odds—which, again, I doubt—that’s a twenty percent chance each. Twenty percent of fifty percent is…” She extended a hand.

Lip curling slightly, he refused to take the bait.

“Ten percent. Take ten percent each for my mother and Dolohov, who ironically are the ones he’d be most likely to send. They have no patience and less subtlety. Ninety-nine percent chance they’d have either jumped me or given up _long_ before I’d made that call. So hold that—one percent of twenty percent says I’m caught. If he assigns Yaxley, I’d give it a ninety-five percent chance that I can lie my way out. He also wouldn’t have known what airplanes and taxis are, so I tell him I’m following a hunch, speaking in code, and disguising myself, and he accepts it and keeps his mouth shut if I say I don’t want my father to know in case it comes to nothing. Five of ten percent. Yaxley, my mother, and Dolohov all together are… what’d that be…” she hesitated, tapping rhythmically on her thigh. “Exact numbers don’t matter. Less than one percent. If it’s Him, I have a ricin pill on me at all times. I can fend him off long enough to take it. So there we are, He gets no information besides that I’m a traitor, everything’s fine. Zero percent that goes wrong.”

“Interesting that you call your own death _nothing going wrong_.”

“Bound to happen eventually.”

“And if He sends me after you?”

Another smile crossed her face. This one was unlike any he’d seen on her before, and suited her far better. It was a little lopsided, a little cheeky, and entirely sincere. “I appeal to your conscience or try to blackmail you, and if neither of those works, I’m ninety-nine percent fucked. You’re pretty competent.”

In spite of himself, he exhaled softly in what was almost a bitter laugh. “Pretty competent. Truly, the apex of praise.”

“I’m fucking with you, Severus. You’re very competent. I’m glad you came on your own.” They sat on the stoop in silence for a few minutes, then, standing, “You calling me a drunk made me want to drink. Get one with me?”

“No,” he said icily, joining her on his feet. “Permission to leave, my Lady?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “If you must.”

“I don’t see what more you want from me, unless it’s to hear yourself talk.”

“Company, idiot.”

“Company, hearing oneself talk… Comes down to the same.”

“Interesting coming from a _professor_. Maybe you don’t hate company so much after all, then.” She smirked and they began to walk down the dark street. “Now. I remember you like Scotch. I’ll buy if we can keep verbally assaulting each other.”

“If you answer the rest of my questions.”

“No promises, but you’re free to ask.”

“Lucius said you went to university. Were you a TA?”

“What gave it away?”

“I can spot a teacher monologue a mile off. What did you study?”

“Bachelor’s in psych at NYU, John Jay for my doctorate. Forensic psych, ironically.”

“Makes this a hell of a post-doc.”

She laughed. It made him feel oddly warm. “You’re a half-blood!”

“How did you…?”

“ _Post-doc_? Come on. And you’re smarter than the rest of them.” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know how lucky I am to have the right number of chromosomes. Pureblood gene pools look more like Manhattan gutter water.”

“Second question. Who were you talking to?”

“My friends back in the city.”

“Muggles?”

“Eliot is. His big sister’s a healer, though, so he’s not too uninformed. He’s a doctor. Watching them argue about what constitutes real medicine is top-tier entertainment.” She grinned. “And his boyfriend, Dima—Dmitriy—my friend from Durmstrang. He’s muggle-born.”

“I didn’t know Durmstrang took them.”

“They do, just don’t seek them out. Dima started his third year, poor kid. Lost his fucking mind when I told him werewolves were real.”

“Why did you come back?"

"After the revival? I don’t know, I have anger issues and passive suicidal ideation. I tried to get Dumbledore to back me up; he gave me some bullshit worthy of Rousseau, so I did a little digging, got a few names of aurors who’d been in the resistance, and had some more success there.”

“Alright, that gives me another question.”

“Shoot.”

He allowed one corner of his mouth a small twitch. “How do you know who Rousseau is?”

“Freshman seminar, duh. They made us read everyone.”

As he followed her into the glow of a liquor store, he asked, “I take it you weren’t fond of Rousseau?”

“Too idealistic. I’m not into philosophy for its own sake. Now, I’ll drink whiskey if it’s that or water, but it’s not my D-O-C. Excuse me?” She withdrew a credit card from her purse and pushed it across the counter to the cashier as a small, room temperature bottle of Glenfidditch and a large, chilled one of albariño zoomed over and clinked down. The clerk started, then rubbed his eyes and passed her the receipt and a plastic bag. “Thank you! Anyway, I’m partial to Machiavelli. Predictable? Might be. But at least he’s got the gist of people.”

The man _tsk_ ed sardonically at her. “Better feared than loved? Cynical for a psychologist.”

“A _forensic_ psychologist. I’ve spent half my adult life among the world’s most traumatized and most traumatizing.”

“Are you referring to before you came here, or after?”

“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow and held the door open for him. “Which are you?”

“I’d rather not dwell on it. Shocking if your father never read _The Prince_.”

“Oh, I’m sure He did. You know He grew up in a muggle orphanage, don’t you? He’s a half-blood too, the fucking hypocrite.”

“Damn. Another question; what did the headmaster say?”

“That he didn’t want me to kill my parents _in case I get a taste for it_.”

“That sounds more typical of Dumbledore than Rousseau.”

“Ah, well. I was hoping you hadn’t read him. I always skived off that class anyway.” Withdrawing one of their cloaks from her purse, she spread it on the grass in an empty park and sat cross-legged on it, unscrewing the bottles and handing one to Severus when he sat.

“If I may speak out of turn—“

“Never ask me permission for that again.”

“—I’m glad I never had you as a student.”

“And I you as a teacher. I get the sense you’d have the balls to fail me.”

He took a sip of the whiskey; CJ inverted the bottle of wine and drained a quarter of it in one. In spite of himself, he found himself hypnotized by the small movements of her throat as she drank. “Fail you? Carina—“

“CJ.”  
“CJ—if you skipped class all semester, I’d have you expelled.”

“Now I’ve a question.”

“Hm?”

“Can we, I don’t know. Meet again?”

“I think we’re scheduled to this weekend.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s too risky.”

“Riskier than spying on the Dark Lord?”

“You’re the one going on about probability. Why exacerbate it?”

“Come on, Severus. I’m so bored. I’m so _isolated_. You must be too. It’s surreal, having to lie all the time, isn’t it? Not being able to trust anyone?”

“I don’t know, my—CJ. I’ve been doing this since you were a kid. I don’t remember anything else.”

“You must be exhausted.”

With a small, wry smile, he let himself nod and took another long drink. She bumped his knee with hers and he felt fire radiate up his leg.

“I’m a psychologist. People need to be social. We’re both spies. We can trust each other.”

“Can we?”

“I’m willing to learn to trust you if you are me. Please? I like you. You’re interesting, you’re intelligent, you’re sort of funny. In a nihilistic asshole way.” She smiled. The bottle of wine was already empty. “But I’m a nihilistic asshole too. Just a better-socialized one.”

“We don’t act like friends in front of the others. We don’t meet in public except in muggle areas and we watch each others’ backs.”

She positively beamed. “Done.”


	8. 8

Perhaps it was the melancholy late-summer loneliness that always struck him, perhaps it was their conversation from the fraught night of a few months past, but CJ was commanding more and more of Severus’s attention as the sultry heat broke and began to mellow into September. This was, in his mind, a clusterfuck of massive proportions. He could not afford such a distraction at the best of times, let alone with her father’s eye on both of them and the burn of his Vow to her aunt still sore on his right arm. Protecting Draco from harm would be harder than his mother could have anticipated. Puberty had hit him like a freight train, and, combined with the weight of his new tattoo, transformed a bratty but generally harmless boy into a talented young wizard with the disposition of a cornered wildcat.

Still, CJ caught his eye even—perhaps especially—during the tensest moments. A raised eyebrow here, a smile there, and Jesus wept she’d asked him to be her friend and now he was practically salivating over her every move. _Down, boy_ , he thought, watching the eyes of nearly every man in the room track her as she swished around in a short cloak and shorter dress, laughing louder with every glass she drained. _She’s got plenty of options and you’ve never been anyone’s first choice._ He stood against a wall and nursed his firewhiskey, relishing in the familiarity of bitterness and isolation. _Even if you were a pureblood of her class, she’d be settling. Look at yourself_. He preferred not to—the only mirrors he owned were small and confined to the bathroom for a reason—but he knew the sharp angles of his face and body, and the contrast between his appearance and hers was so stark as to be almost blasphemous.

Yaxley settled against the wall next to him, tilting his own glass in greeting. A head taller and at least half again as broad, the man cut an odd figure at his side, graceless and oversized in comparison, but he was as close to a friend as Severus had within the Death Eaters. Not a sadist and not an idiot.

“You’ll want to quit staring at her.”

Severus choked on his drink and lapsed into over a minute’s wholly undignified coughing before he could reply. CJ glanced over, her eyes a little glazed, and he saw lips part and nose crinkle in a laugh he couldn’t quite hear before she raised her glass, spilling wine down her arm, still grinning.

“That obvious?”

“You remember how Malfoy was with the wife back when they were kids?”

He nodded, grimacing.

“You’re worse. Making a move won’t get you any favors with the Dark Lord, either. Odds are she’s either already betrothed off or won’t ever be. You know how things work in our circles.”

Trying not to show how acutely he’d felt the _our_ exclude him, he nodded again and drained the glass. “I’ve no plans to, as you say, _make a move_. Has looking been outlawed?”

The larger man snorted. “Hardly, and especially in that dress I don’t blame you, but gawking’s, uh, frowned upon in polite society.”

“I wasn’t—“

“Just some friendly advice, Snape. Take it to heart before the Lestranges get out. Bellatrix eats scrawny half-blood kids for breakfast, even when they don’t stare at her daughter like they haven’t eaten in days and she’s a steak dinner.”

The use of the word _kids_ irritated him now only marginally less than it had when he’d actually been one. Lucius, Yaxley, and the dumb-and-dumber Crabbe and Goyle that their juniors so comically emulated had only been six years ahead of Severus at Hogwarts, but acted as though they were separated by lifetimes of experience and wisdom. Temper in check, he replied only, “Duly noted.”

Yaxley had enough tact to change the subject after a few beats of silence. “So. Ready for another year of Dumbledore’s bullshit?”

He rolled his eyes. “Never.”

“I don’t know how you do it. Between the teenage hormones and that mudblood-loving maniac...”

“The teenagers are worse. At least Dumbledore’s more intelligent than he looks; the students never fail to disappoint in that regard.”

“I believe you. Weasley pack still stirring the cauldron? Merlin, I’d love an excuse to fire Arthur.”

“It’s been relatively peaceful since the worst dropped out.”

“Peaceful? Didn’t that saccharine bitch Umbridge try to fight a herd of centaurs?”

“I said relatively. Besides—“

“Oh, here she comes,” Yaxley remarked, giving Severus a hard nudge in the ribs with one ebow as CJ approached them, weaving surprisingly little for the amount she’d drank and the height of her heels.

“Hey, girls. Mind if I cut in?”

Severus moved aside, and his colleague replied, “Not at all.”

“Sebby!?” A house elf materialized next to them, half in a bow even mid-apparation. “Any cheese in this establishment?”

“Would my Lady prefer a camembert, or a chevre, or a sheep’s milk—“

“Yes! All of that. And some crackers, and another glass of... whatever this is.” She drained hers and passed it to the elf. “And not one of those bullshit five-ounce pours, fill her up! Ooh, and some prosciutto? And chorizo? Thanks. And cherries. And caviar!” she added as an afterthought as the elf scurried away. Her eyes returned to the men and she grinned a little apologetically, wide brown eyes unfocused. “I’m starving,” she explained. “I haven’t eaten since _lunch_ , and I only had a salad...”

“No need to excuse, my Lady,” Yaxley assured her. “We’re both just glad to see you in good spirits.”

She gave a dismissive flourish of her hand and spun around, nearly keeling over, at the sound of an opening door. “Draco! Come over, we’re having charcuterie.”

The boy reluctantly approached, wincing as CJ flung an overenthusiastic arm around his shoulders. A marble slab heaped with cured meats, cheeses, sliced French bread, and bowls of fruit and olives floated to waist height over the returning house elf, and she immediately began to pile cheese and sausage onto a piece of baguette. “Needed this,” she moaned through a mouthful. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“Nothing important,” said Severus, at the same time that Yaxley said, “This and that” and made them both look rather suspicious.

CJ only smiled. “Secrets? How juicy.”

“I’m tired,” began Draco, edging away from under her arm. “I think I’ll—“

“Shh, have a drink with us. Sebby! What do you drink now, love, last time I saw you it was milk and juice but I think you deserve something more—“

“Just butterbeer’s fine,” he mumbled, avoiding his professor’s eyes.

“No, it’s not. Tequila? Do a shot with me. You two too! I want to forget who I am tonight. Cuervo, Sebby. The good shit, Reposado, not that Especial swill.” Full shot glasses appeared on request, with a neat lime slice atop each, and CJ drank hers as though it was water. Draco choked on his, and bit deeply into the lime. “Now you can have your gateway drink. Sebby? A butterbeer—thanks, that should be all. Severus! Drink. When does your semester start?”

“Next week.”

“Have another drink! At Durmstrang, we used to…” She downed another shot, then shouted something in Russian and smashed the glass on the floor. “Potions, right?”

“Actually, no. Dumbledore’s brought an old professor out of retirement. I’ve been switched to Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Her grin was almost wolfish in its sardonicism. “How ironic.”

“So it is.”

“Severus?”

“Hm?”

“Can I be straight with you?” She leaned close to him and whispered, “Hah. First time I’ve been straight since Durmstrang.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fuck, I’m drunk. In my head this was… better than this. I like girls, but also _you_ , I think.” He barely had time to process what she’d said when she hissed, “Shh!” and leapt back with agility that surprised him. Her stagger once she was vertical did not. “D’you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Asked Draco, eyes widening with panic and spilling Butterbeer down his shirt. Yaxley had turned in the same direction as CJ, as had a few others.

“Door.” Swaying slightly, she took out her wand and pointed it at the Manor entrance. Severus drew his as well. “Hello?”

There was a beat of silence, then a familiar burst of laughter, and Bellatrix strode through the front door, her husband and brother-in-law flanking a weakly struggling figure. “Vance!” she announced. “We’ve caught Vance! Who wants to play? Crucio!”

While Bellatrix sauntered over to the Dark Lord and began cajoling him over, the Lestrange brothers took over the torture, and Dolohov all but ran over to join in. The bloodlust was saturating the room.

The auror screamed and convulsed, splitting the skin of her face on the marble floor. Severus found CJ’s eyes across the circle of Death Eaters. Her face was as impassive as his own, but he felt the knot of guilt and panic in her stomach as much as he knew that she did his. The proximity of their minds was strange, alien—not since Lily had he let anyone in besides Voldemort and Dumbledore, and it had been decades since someone had been able to project into his head the way she was. _Should I?_ She was thinking. _Should I? Should I should I should I should I—_

He met her eyes and thought, _End it._

“I’m bored,” she said coolly. With a flick of her wand and a flash of green light, the woman was still and silent. “Let’s get back to drinking.”

Bellatrix glared at her, but Voldemort’s shriek of laughter kept the woman from lashing out.

As they exited the room, she brushed Severus’s hand with hers. The contact was quick enough to seem accidental. “Pardon me, my Lady,” he murmured, holding the door as she swept haughtily past him and trying to act as though the touch hadn’t scalded.

“See it doesn’t happen again.”


	9. 9

The only tell that CJ had felt a thing about the murder was in the renewed fervor with which she drank before slipping away from the group. Severus excused himself and followed her outside. She was sitting on a cloak spread on the grass, shoulders trembling.  
“My Lady?” he asked, approaching cautiously, hand on his wand. Her face when she’d killed the woman had not left him.  
“‘S funny,” she breathed, and he was shocked to see tears in her eyes when she looked up. “Never gets easier, does it? Thought it would, as a kid.”  
“It doesn’t.”  
“Sit.” He took the spot on the cloak next to where she’d sat. “How many‘ve you...?”  
“Indirectly? I prefer not to speculate. Directly? Six.”  
“That’s it? Baby fuckin’ Jesus. You must think I’m a monster.”  
“I don’t. My father was my first.”  
“For the Dark Lord?”  
“Partly. We didn’t get on.”  
“Severus?”  
“Yes?”  
“Why’d you defect?”  
“It’s a long story.”  
“It’s not a decision you make without one.”  
He sighed. “I was stupid when I joined. I realized it eventually.”  
“Who did they go after?”  
“What?”  
“Was it a relative? Significant other? Friend?”  
“A friend.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
He shook his head. “What about you? What made you…”  
“Narcissa.”  
“Malfoy?”  
She nodded. “I hadn’t seen love like that back in Albania. I grew up there, before, you know. Harry Potter and everything. And they took me in, and… The way they treated each other, the way they treated Draco. I mean, Draco was just a baby then, but… Lucius and I don’t get on so well—at least, we used to fight a lot, now he’s pretty deferential—but Narcissa… that woman saved my fucking soul. I used to… I mean, I had PTSD hardcore. I’d scream in my sleep and she would always wake me up, and she wouldn’t be angry, just… And then, when I started at Durmstrang, my friend, Dima, was muggle-born, and it just blew my mind that I couldn’t tell until he started talking about cars. I mean, that he was… the same as me. And…” She yawned, forced a smile, wiped her eyes, gave a final shrug and let her head fall onto his shoulder. It was warm and heavy there and he swallowed hard.  
“My friend was muggle-born too.”  
“They killed her?”  
“I didn’t say she was a woman.”  
CJ shrugged again.  
“Obviously you’re a more than competent legilimens.“  
“I’m okay.” She laughed. “It’s hard to say how much is real legilimency, and how much is just… cold reading and psychology. Besides, for how well you occlude, your face… You’re lucky my father’s no good with emotions.”  
“Regardless, it’s quite intrusive. Are you like this with everyone?”  
“Some people are harder. You’re one of those. Draco’s easy. But I have to be paying attention. And like I said…” She yawned again. “A lot of it’s just observation. Earlier, for example.” She gave his shoulder a playful shove. “You were looking at me. I looked up. You blushed and looked away. I’m twenty-eight, I know what it means when men do that. You’re doing it again. Don’t be embarrassed, Carrow was much worse about it and he’s old, too. I know what that dress does to people.”  
“Sorry.”  
“You’re blushing again. It’s cute. Severus?”  
“Mm?”  
“When I said I had a crush on you, it wasn’t just the alcohol. It isn’t now, either.”  
Speechless, he looked at her, licking his lips nervously in spite of his rapidly cracking self control, and her smile widened a little, and for the first time it wasn’t her father’s cold, wry smirk but a real, human expression. He knew she was attractive, but God, with that smile, she was beautiful. Helen of Troy, start a war beautiful, and she was leaning towards him, and then she froze and met his deep black eyes with her brown ones.   
“Don’t do this because I’m His daughter and you can’t say no,” she breathed. “I want to, but not if you don’t.”  
“I…” Still lost for words, he moved closer to her, hesitant, unusually shy, as she raised a hand, so light and gentle, to brush his hair behind his shoulder, to caress his neck. He shivered and closed his eyes for an instant, and his hand pulled her a fraction, almost involuntarily, towards his own body. She moved closer, turning slightly, to press herself to him, and he was suddenly and painfully aware of how much time had passed since he’d last had physical contact with another person. Her eyes closed, and her lips found his. They parted, and met again.  
“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” she murmured.   
“I have as well.”  
“I know.” She laughed, her nose bumping his, and kissed him again, and he didn’t have time to reconsider before his mind was a haze of more and yes and oh you taste like wine and tequila and honey and—  
“Why are you thinking?” she murmured. “You shouldn’t be thinking right now. You and I, we’re always thinking. But right now, just do.” Their eyes locked, then their lips did, and he found his arms around her, one hand on the small of her back and one tangled in her hair, reflexively pulling her in close. Their noses collided again and he flinched, wondering how she wasn’t repulsed by him, but she only smiled, her arms around him, and damn, damn, damn. Her lips and—for an instant—her tongue met his neck, just below his ear, and he almost gasped as his head fell back. “Oh, you liked that,” she laughed, and did it again.   
Her hands were on his cheek and his chest, his hands on her waist and her neck, their bodies pressed so close together in the cold night air. His mind had gone cloudy and he suddenly didn’t care about murder or horcruxes or Potter or anything besides the woman in his arms. She nipped at his throat and collarbone between kisses, and took one of his hands in hers and moved it to her breast. Obediently, he squeezed, and let out a soft moan against her lips in spite of himself. She laughed, and pulling him down to lie on the cloak next to her, bit his lower lip hard.   
“Is this the infamous Durmstrang Dark Arts education?” he managed, hoarsely.  
“What, the Ministry doesn’t consider this essential curricula?”  
“Unfortunately not.”  
“Pity.”  
“Carina—“  
“CJ.”  
“CJ—I don’t know what you want, but—I haven’t in a while, and—“  
“Severus?”  
“Mm?”  
“Shut the fuck up.” She kissed him harder, and he was light-headed and his heart was pounding, and then she pulled away and smiled, running a hand through her tousled hair with a wink. “I’m more than happy to make this a regular thing, but be careful. Not that it needs saying, but your half-blood hands on me won’t please Him.”  
“No.” He sat up and kissed her again.  
“Thank you.”  
“What for?”  
“Making me feel like a human again.” She nestled her head against his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want her to suffer, and…”  
“I know.”  
“Once my mother gets you, you’re lucky to die.”  
“I know.”  
“I couldn’t’ve done…”  
“I know,” he said again, and covered her hand with his. “Go back inside. It’ll look suspicious with both of us gone.”  
“Are you leaving, then?”  
“If you’d rather I stay…”  
“I would.”  
“I will, then. A little while longer.”  
She stood, ran her fingers through her short hair, sniffed. Her wand swished through the air in front of her face and her makeup was as impeccable as if she’d never shed a tear. “Here.” She repeated the gesture on him and he felt a pleasantly cool breeze. “I assume you didn’t want to go back in with lipstick on your face.”  
“Definitely not.”  
“I think,” she murmured, turning towards the manor, “we both could use another drink.”


	10. 10

That was the first of what would be many trysts, in the moments of privacy they could snatch between meetings and his work at Hogwarts and hers doing… whatever it was she did when she wasn’t at the table. The next week, she had caught him in the manor, beckoned him into the private suite reserved for Death Eater meetings, and pinned him to a wall. Despite her efforts and his _needing_ , his innate caution prevented him from allowing her to do more than kiss for over a month. Sometimes, hesitantly, he touched her breasts over the fabric of her clothes; sometimes when she pressed a hand against his groin he waited a few moments to pull it away. When he returned to his quarters at Hogwarts he would stumble into the shower and fuck his hand until his knees shook, knowing that her touch would be incomparable.

She teased him. On the weekends off that he occasionally spent at the manor, she would brush against him or meet his eyes and then drop what she was holding so she had to bend over, her spine a smooth curve, to reclaim it. It made him feel like a teenager. She would sip a glass of wine and then slowly drag her tongue over her full lips, eyes locked on his, making his collar feel far too tight.

When she knelt in front of him for the first time, and he leaned back white-knuckled against the table, it was over far too quickly, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. After a meeting at the same table, a few days later, she swept him into a closet and, a hand at his neck, kissed him urgently, hungrily. She had laughed when she’d noticed his eyes on the low neckline of her dress. “You don’t have to just look, Severus.” He had put his hands on her, first over the fabric, then under, then had pulled the bodice to her waist and kissed her warm skin. Pale though she was, there was the faint line of a tan where her bra would have been, and the thought of her lying on some foreign beach in nothing but a bikini made his racing heart pound even faster. 

She had moved her hands lower, against the now painfully hard part of him. His tongue in her mouth, rubbing his hips against her until he made a sharp, involuntary sound and—

“Fuck,” he whispered, slumping against her. His face burned. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“You came?” There was a little mirth in her voice, and he thought if she laughed outright he would die on the spot.

“It’s the stress. Fuck. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. Use your hand.”

“What?”

“Here.” She covered his hand with hers, drew it close under the dress, and he copied the motions she made and the pressure she placed. His embarrassment was soon outweighed by how wet she was down there ( _for me_ , he thought, _my God, because of_ me), and he redoubled his efforts, groping her breasts with his free hand and kissing her mouth and neck.

“Can I—with my mouth?”

She pressed his shoulders down in answer, so he collapsed to his knees, pushed up her skirt, buried his face between her thighs, and began to redeem himself. The fact that they, as spies, walked the same tightrope, that they were in a coat closet in the manor where the Dark Lord lived, that she was His beautiful daughter and he was only some half-blood Yorkshire nonentity, was beyond erotic.

To her credit, she was very quiet, and he could only tell that she had climaxed by the catch in her breath and the way her muscles spasmed for a few moments. He suppressed an overwhelming desire to moan, and sat back, wiping his mouth and staring up at her. God, she was perfection, chest heaving and eyes half-closed, barely visible in the light through the slatted doors, and despite—or perhaps because of—the years and years of occlumency, he felt a sudden twisting agony in his chest. It was her. It was all her, and he closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against the fronts of her thighs, wishing that this could be eternity. There were tears in his eyes, and he stood and embraced her to hide them in her hair while he forced any weakness from his consciousness.

“Are you going to bed?” he breathed.

“Probably. You?”

“Probably.” Then, because he didn’t know what else to say, “Thank you, Rina.”

“Rina. I like that.” She grinned and kissed him. “Goodnight, Rus. Stay alive.” Slipping through the closet doors, she gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed, _coast clear_ , and disappeared up the stairs. That was always her farewell; _stay alive_. He waited a few seconds, then followed, disapparating once the grand doors to the entrance hall closed behind him.

Back in his rooms, he showered and poured a glass of whiskey. Settling on his couch, he took out a pen—in private, he preferred them to quills—and a sheet of paper, and wrote two lists, one under a + and one under a -. The first read:

_Attractive, intelligent, chemistry, understands background & current predicament, sense of humor, flattering that she would look twice at me (why is this? investigate.), …attractive_

The second:

_Possibly an alcoholic, volatile,_ _if V finds out, we are fucked_.

He sighed, crumpled the page, and tossed it into the fire. Leaning back on the couch, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag, closing his eyes. Suddenly he was exhausted. He had never felt especially young, not even as a child, but in that moment he felt as though he’d spent a thousand hellish years alone. That spring it would be twenty years since he’d last spoken to Lily, twenty years since he’d joined the Death Eaters, twenty years since he’d last had a real friend. Introverted though he was, the isolation was a constant dull ache. Her proximity sharpened it. He had long since given up hoping for any semblance of a normal human relationship, would have thought he was numb to it, but now, dangled in front of his face as it was, he longed to seize her, claim her. _I like being around you,_ she’d said _._ And her touch—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched and it hadn’t hurt. It relaxed something inside him that had grown spiky and vicious long ago, and forced it to show that at its core was the fear and pain of a friendless, unloved child.

He finished the cigarette and tossed the butt into the fire. Of course there were people he’d wanted sexually before. Though the majority of his coworkers and students would argue vehemently otherwise, he was not, in fact, asexual. This situation—that was how he had started thinking of his budding entanglement with CJ, _the situation_ —was different. The attraction and chemistry were there, but mingled with affection and respect in a way they never had been before. _I have such a crush on you, Severus,_ she’d said, and grinned not a little nervously. Was this how she’d felt then? Were that the case, it was certainly flattering—he was certain that plenty of men and no deficit of women had felt the same towards her. Ultimately, he decided, that was what made it so confusing. Desirable people ended up with desirable people, didn’t they?

He stripped and changed into t-shirt and sweatpants, lit another cigarette and refilled his glass, and got into bed. Though he was exhausted, it was a long while before he could sleep.


	11. 11

“I want to come to the Order meeting.”

CJ had a hand on one hip, and spoke in the voice she used at the table. It would be hard to fight her on this, and Severus weighed the benefits of doing so against the risks. He sighed, crossing his arms. “What we discuss there is… If it got out, it would end the war, and not for better. You’ve said you’re a good enough occlumens, and I’m inclined to believe you, but for this—prove it.”

Cocking her head slightly to one side, she replied, “Go ahead, then.”

He raised his wand and met her ready eyes. She _was_ good. His own mind was akin to a file cabinet, with many locked and separate boxes that opened only when necessary. CJ’s _felt_ open, as open as Potter’s had, but…

No memories of him, but for the ones at the meeting. No memories of aurors, or muggle university. Only of incidents and anecdotes portraying her as the perfect heiress to the Dark Lord.

Then, clear as words, _do you want to catch up?_

_What do you mean?  
You’ll see. You’ll see what I want you to. _

Unprompted, images slid into his mind; white and purple flags on brick buildings, parks swarmed with twenty-somethings lounging on blankets, a young man with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair and a scar splitting his otherwise handsome face, a building shaped like a wedge that he knew without knowing was _the flatiron_ , the smooth musculature of a glossy white python wrapped around one arm. A tall, lanky Black man in a short white coat, stethoscope around his neck, exhausted but smiling. A group of young women in a bar, clustered around an older one, who was presenting on _the impact of gender norms on adolescent neuroplasticity._ The same bar, a different group, a man with a light German accent and CJ standing next to him, flinging jargon and banter like tennis players in front of a screen reading _what you never wanted to know about psychopathy_.

She had screamed in her sleep for years after His first fall from power. It would be years more before she fully comprehended why.

A one-room apartment with clothing and shopping bags on the floor, a half-empty bottle of wine on a glass coffee table next to a book of deep sea photography. Deep sea—but she was now in shallow sea, surrounded by saltwater, breathing through a long metal tube and a tank strapped to her back, exhilarated, the only sound that of her own breathing as bubbles rose from the regulator. Looking up to see an eel, head poking out from a crack between two corals, double jaws just parted, and she floated perfectly still and watched it watch her. Sharks. Rays. Fish. The inside of an airplane ( _hi if you have a sec could I get another sauv b? thanks!)_ and the sweat peculiar to having been inside too long. Palm trees. Airplane. Fjords. Airplane. City. Airplane. And underwater again, drifting on her back, staring up at the surface as an enormous Mako shark swam lazily overhead, and she was so happy she felt her lungs would burst. Her first patronus, the same as the silhouette that had passed her by.

Gothic font; doctor of philosophy; psychology, clinical forensic. Back ached. Head ached. Face ached from laughing. Exhausted, running on fumes, but ecstatic. Flat black cap, long black robe, flashing cameras. No idea that she would soon be wearing a similar robe in an entirely different context, although the hood then would match, not stand out blue and gold against sable. No family in the audience, but many friends. The professors from the bar slapping her on the back, shaking her hand. That night, multicolored lights and pounding techno. The blue-eyed, brown-haired man throwing his arms around her and handing her a martini and an empty shot glass before turning to kiss the lanky young doctor, still wearing his octagonal cap, the purple tassel falling in his face. All three were laughing, swaying to the music, pupils enormous with catharsis and molly. CJ half-drinking, half-spilling the martini, snuggling into a hug between the two. It was safe, it was cozy, it was home.

Skyscrapers in the distance.

Empire State lit up neon.

Relief.

Relief.

Relief.

Snow. Black sweaters, black trousers, burgundy ties, dark grey fur cloaks. CJ couldn’t have been more than thirteen, and there was something wild and manic in her eyes and grin as a bottle passed back and forth between her and a boy—the blue-eyed man from New York, but much smaller, much thinner, the scar livid and fresh from forehead to the hollow of his cheek.

 _Tell me another episode of that cop show_ , CJ had said, and the shadow of a smile had flitted on the boy’s face.

_You have dragons and curses and magic wands and you want to hear about Miami Vice?_

_Yes_. Even then her affect was commanding.

_First I want to hear about the other magic schools. And England, and… everything._

_Boring. Well, they’re everywhere. The other big ones in Europe are Beauxbatons and Hogwarts. They recruit muggle-borns, but only on their side of the iron curtain, or one of them would’ve slurped you up._

_So there are more at those?_

_Oh God, yes. You should hear my uncle go on about it._ The boy looked relieved. _Sort of blows that you’re Ukrainian. If you’d been from, I don’t know, West Germany, they’d have found you earlier and made things a lot easier. You wouldn’t have had two years of catching up to do._

_But then we wouldn’t have met._

Some of the wildness in her face softened and she put an arm around him. _You’re sweet, Dima._

 _I’ve never had a witch friend before,_ he said, and nestled his head against the junction of her shoulder and her neck.

 _I’ve never had a friend before,_ she replied.

Soho sun, hangover, the deep pain on her arm like a sunburn but worse, so much worse, so shocking that she dropped her bloody mary, and she was handing the white python to the doctor. The snake had hissed softly, recoiling into an S shape, not wanting to leave her Marked arm for the man’s so innocently tattooed one—parseltongue— _Yes baby girl I’ll miss you so much, but my father’s back and I have to go. Be good for Dima and El, okay? They can’t talk to you so be patient. Be good._

She and the other man were back in the apartment, a suitcase, a backpack, clothes thrown haphazardly in. Then, an airport. A Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and the thought that it might be her last. The inside of an airplane ( _hi if you have a sec could I get another sauv b? thanks!)_ and the sweat peculiar to fear. Another airport, and disapparition. Suitcase left at the Malfoys’ manor, disapparition again, and she stood in front of Dumbledore— _I’m the Dark Lord’s daughter and I want him dead what should I do_. A burst of anger, disapparition, and she was in the Ministry of Magic. _Shacklebolt or Moody. I need Shacklebolt or Moody._ Standing in front of Moody— _I’m the Dark Lord’s daughter and I want him dead what should I do._ Satisfaction. Disapparition. Standing in front of her father— _Forgive my lateness, I’ve been recruiting from New York and transportation was difficult. I thought it would be better to be slow than to draw attention to international apparition._ The cruciatus curse. Veritaserum. Legilimency. His mind rough as it entered hers, probed at the corners, but he found nothing but servitude.

_Good girl, Carina. Welcome home._

He touched her Mark. She almost flinched.

And the memory did not fade but vanished, and _Do you trust me now? Probably not, I know how you are—but maybe a little more?_

He stood back and looked up at her. “Alright. Come on, then.”

She smiled. “I told you.”

She took his arm and they disapparated, reappearing in front of a row of unobtrusive London houses. Severus initiated their contact rarely enough, had never done so when there was a chance of being seen, and CJ found she quite liked it when he brushed his fingers under her chin and kissed her. For an exquisite moment, they stood close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s bodies, lips together, noses just touching, hand in hand; and then they turned as another house began to swell between numbers eleven and thirteen. A red-haired woman greeted them.

“Professor? Who’s this?”

“An associate. She’s been providing intel to Moody and Shacklebolt.”

“CJ Black,” said CJ, and the women shook hands.

“Molly Weasley. Lovely to meet you, CJ. Please—come in, come—“

She followed Severus into the house, teasingly whispering “ _Professor_ ” against the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. They stood up at the near-contact, and when she took his hand he gripped hers so tightly it was almost painful, then withdrew it as he led her into a small room not unlike that where the Death Eaters’ meetings took place. The similarity was almost comical. She moved a fraction closer to him, glancing at the people around the table. Mostly men, but not entirely; certainly more chromosomal diversity than the Death Eaters. Moody caught her eye and shot her a twisted, lopsided grin, which she returned; next to him was a young woman with short, spiked pink hair who looked surprised at the newcomer. Severus took an empty seat, and conjured a new one, which CJ occupied, between him and a lanky, slightly unkempt man in a cheap suit who looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. There was an open bottle of firewhiskey and a few empty glasses on the table and, noticing how she was eyeing it, the man poured a glass and pushed it in front of her.

“Thanks.”

“Cheers.”

“Who’s the new girl?” asked pink hair, and there was a general look of support.

“That’s Carina Black,” said Shacklebolt, his deep, calm voice silencing the room. “You’ll remember my having mentioned an inside source high up within the Death Eaters? Here she is.” The man at her side inhaled sharply, and she stiffened slightly in her seat, on the defensive the instant Severus’s grip tightened in response on her thigh. There was no clear leader here, which made alliances confusing.

“Black? Are we cousins, then? I’m Tonks.” Pink hair was the only one who looked unfazed by the name, and CJ appreciated it and shook her hand across the table. “My mother’s Andromeda. You’re Bellatrix’s daughter, then?”

“Unfortunately. I like your hair. Very punk.”

“Thanks.”

“Molly and Arthur Weasley,” Shacklebolt continued, pointing to the man at Molly’s side. “Those are their two oldest sons, Bill and Charlie, and Bill’s fiancée Fleur. You know Alastor and Severus, and you’ve just met Nymphadora—“ Tonks wrinkled her nose— “who prefers to be referred to by her surname. That’s Remus Lupin,” the man in the cheap suit at CJ’s side raised a hand, “Minerva McGonagall,” a woman raised her sharp chin, “and of course, Dumbledore, but he’s rarely at meetings.”

She felt as much as saw Severus tense at her side, and she brushed her hand briefly and surreptitiously against his thigh. A few seconds passed, and then his knee bumped hers.

“That’s the introductions—any intel, Black?”

She talked for several minutes, seeming to choose her words more carefully the more she drank. Severus interjected a few times and she paused to look at him when he did, lips slightly parted and pupils huge in her dark eyes. He wanted her badly, more so after he accepted a few drinks of his own, and felt a slow, hot stirring in his groin. The meeting seemed to crawl. He hadn’t been so bored since his History of Magic classes as a boy, and he found his hand returning again and again to her thigh. Through her muggle jeans, he felt warmth and muscle, and when she moved her leg to touch his, he shuddered every time and tightened his grip.

“Come to the Manor tonight,” she whispered, when it was over.

“Why?”

Her lips twitched in a smile against his ear, and the contact made him shiver. “You’ll see.” Standing back from him, she winked and brushed her fingers across his lower abdomen, sending a blossom of heat across his body. “I’ll see you tonight.”


	12. 12

The sensation of his heart simultaneously sinking and swelling was uncomfortable to say the least. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, per se—he wanted to very badly—but he was certain that he would disappoint her at best, disgust her at worst, and of course he would sooner or later but _later_ would be better and—

But even if he could have just ignored the summons, he wouldn’t have resisted.

Locking his quarters, he wrapped his cloak around himself against the October wind and walked quickly and quietly to the border of the school’s protective enchantments. Murmuring a few incantations and passwords, he slipped through and disapparated. When he passed through the gate to the manor, he saw the woman’s silhouette in the door, and she raised a hand. He walked up to her and took her in his arms, acutely aware that besides his own clothes there was only a thin silk dressing gown between their bodies.

“Is this what I think it is?” the man whispered hoarsely.

“Depends on what you think it is.” With a mischievous grin, she leaned forwards and bit his lower lip. There seemed to be a nerve that went from there directly to his groin, and when she sucked on it for a moment the nerve went electric. “Everyone’s out.” When she spoke, her lips bumped his. “Well, not everyone, but—obviously Draco’s at school and Lucius’s in Azkaban. Cissa and Wormtail aren’t coming out of their rooms until morning, and Bellatrix and my father are going to be out all night. Thought it would be better not to ask what they’re up to. We have the whole west wing to ourselves.”

He could only manage a strangled sound of acknowledgement. She kissed him again, more deeply, took his hands in hers and brought them to her waist, placed hers on his shoulder and chest, her thumb tracing lazy circles over his collarbone in time with the movements of their lips.

“Red? White? Scotch?”

He would normally have gone for the latter, but given what the woman had planned, decided to be safer. “Red’s fine.”

She raised a hand and a bottle of Barolo flew into it from around a corner at the back of the atrium. Taking one of his hands in her free one, she gave a light tug and whispered, “Follow me.”

Who was he to disobey?

Despite how long he’d known the Malfoys, he’d never been to the private quarters upstairs. There was a flight of stairs, then another, then a long hallway with a door on either side. She opened the one on the left. “Normally Draco would be there,” she gestured across the hall, “but as is…”

The door led to what was almost another atrium of its own right. A vanity with a large, elaborate mirror stood against one wall, makeup and jewelry and little jars of skin products scattered haphazardly across it, and the opposite wall opened into an enclave the size of Severus’s own office that seemed to serve as both dressing room and walk-in closet. The far wall held a velvet chaise under a window the width and height of the room, with a view of the expansive woods behind the manor. At the far end of each wall was another door. CJ gave him a few heartbeats to take it in, then gave his hand another gentle pull, escorting him through the door and closing and locking it behind her.

Thinking quickly, he whispered, “Muffliato,” and flicked his wand over the door. The woman looked at him curiously.

“I don’t know that spell.”

“I made it up. It prevents… eavesdropping.”

“Muffliato,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Smart boy, aren’t you?”

From anyone else he would have lashed out at perceived condescension. From her, he allowed himself to bask in the praise for an instant. She pointed at the door next to the closet, “Lavatory,” and the one next to the vanity, “Bedroom. Ah, fuck, I forgot glasses. Oh well. Na zdorovye.” She sliced the top of the bottle off with the same nonverbal spell she’d used the night they met, and took a long sip before passing it to him.

“L’chaim.” He drank as well. The wine was earthy, spicy-sweet, and left a pleasant sensation of hot velvet in his mouth and throat.

“Here first.” She brought him to the bathroom, setting the bottle on the marble edge of an enormous bathtub. It was clear now why she always smelled like sweet jasmine. Again and again, their lips met, and he leaned into her, relishing the pure sensory pleasure he so rarely experienced. Then her hands were unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it open and raising the hem of his undershirt, and he caught her wrists, shying away. “Wait. Wait.”

She looked up at him, flushed. “Are you alright?”

“I—“ he hesitated, pulling the shirt down. He should have known it would come to this, but… “Rina, I… You shouldn’t—I’m not… pleasant to look at.”

“Would it help if I said I disagree?”

He shook his head. “You’re not blind.”

“Do you like how you look with clothes on?”

“What?” His lip curled. _Ugly freak_ , he thought, _filth_. “Of course not.”

“I do. I’m sure it’ll be the same with them off.”

Taking a step back, he hesitated. He would be able to tell in her face if he disgusted her, and he didn’t think he could bear it. In one quick motion before he could stop himself, he stripped off the shirt and dropped it to the floor. His body was lean but not exceptionally muscular, a hair too thin, and there were dozens of thin white lines crisscrossing the insides of his upper arms, his hips, waist, stark against the wiry curls of black hair just visible above his belt and dusted across his chest. Burn and curse scars of various sizes and ages were scattered across his skin, and there were the marks of stitches along his left collarbone. The brand on his left arm mirrorred the distinctive ellipse of an Unbreakable Vow on his right, dark enough that there had to be more than one. When his eyes rose to hers, they were not the eyes of a hardened double-agent but of a frightened boy, awaiting the approval of a crush. He shivered when her palms curved around his hips, unflinching over the scars, and when her lips met his the kiss was long and deep and gentle.

“You’re beautiful, Severus.”

The fingers of one hand twisted gently into his hair, and she moved just far enough away that their eyes could meet. His relief was overwhelming, and in spite of himself he let out a sharp breath that he hadn’t been consciously holding. The fear was beginning to ebb away. She had seen him and had not laughed, had not curled a lip in contempt and revulsion. She said he was _beautiful_ , and though he knew he wasn’t, her expression had been almost believable in its sincerity. Although he knew it would be difficult undressing fully, there was nothing now that she hadn’t seen.

“My back’s worse.”

“Let me see.”

He turned. The skin was a battleground from shoulders to below his belt. She nudged his long hair to one side and kissed the nape of his neck, arms crossed around his waist.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t be sorry.” Placing her hands on his shoulders, she turned him to face her again, and pressed her mouth to his.

“If you don’t want me…”

“I still want you.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re not me.”

“Take this off.”

She laughed and dropped the short robe to the floor. The man swallowed hard, watching her with a mix of hunger and something like worship. He had seen parts of her in various states of undress, but never all at once, and never—God—in anything like the white lace lingerie set she wore. Small waist with defined abdominal muscles, round breasts, long, athletic legs. More tattoos than the horrible brand on her forearm. A scorpion on one hip; roses on one shoulder blade; a dagger between her breasts; a shark, jaws wide in attack, on her right bicep. A jagged, uneven scar curved across the side of her left thigh, drawing attention away from the scattered smaller ones. Feeling half-drunk, as though he were fighting an imperius curse, he dragged his gaze up to her face after a moment’s shock. He no longer merely wanted her. He _needed_ her, viscerally, as one needed water or sleep. He needed to bury himself in her, needed to devour and possess, and she must have been able to tell because he wasn’t sure he’d felt anything so overpowering in years.

A smile, warm and soft, twitched at the corners of her full lips. “Like it?”

“Yes. You’re… perfect. You’re perfect.”

“You flatter me.”

“Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

He took her in his hands, kissed her again, lips and neck and breasts, her skin so smooth and warm against his body and under his palms. He fumbled with the clasp of her bra for a moment, then unfastened it and watched her shrug it to the floor. One of her hands wandered down the side of his neck to his shoulder, the sharp lines of his ribs, his hip, and then the hand was between the two of them, _touching_ him _there_. He pressed against her grip. “Rina. Rina. I don’t want to... finish early.”

“I know. That’s why I’m going to get you off, and then we relax for a bit, and then _you_ get _me_ off, and _then_ we see if you’re up for a second round, hm?”

“Alright, but—what if I can’t… go again?”

“Then we do it another time. Stop worrying, Severus.” She pulled back from the kiss and smiled reassuringly at him. “Just enjoy this, okay? Don’t worry about doing something wrong, just relax.” Rising slightly onto her toes, she kissed the tip, then bridge of his nose before returning to his mouth. Her hand contracted _tightly_ , and he was breathless. “It’s just sex. If something happens, so what? We’ve done it before.” He tried to nod, but the burn in his cheeks must have been visible, because— “You _have_ done this before, haven’t you?”

Closing his eyes, lips pressed tight together, he shook his head. Her soft _oh_ was bad enough. He didn’t want to see her face.

“Sorry,” he muttered, the heat spreading across his face and down his chest. He felt sick with embarrassment.

“No—no, it’s fine, I’m just... surprised.”

“I haven’t had much time for—and it’s not like there’s anyone at Hogwarts,” he added defensively. “Or here. It’s not that I—“

“It’s fine,” she repeated. “And that explains a lot, actually.”

“What, when I...?” The blush deepened at the memory of that time he’d embarrassed himself in the coat closet.

This time she did laugh, and despite it not being a cruel sound, he could have sunk into the floor. “Yes, that too—but I was thinking more of how you always ask me what you want me to do, if I’m enjoying myself. I thought you were just being chivalrous.” His eyes were locked on the floor. “Do you want me to take the lead, then? I assume you know the theory, but if it’d take the pressure off....”

“I’m not—“ he snapped, then, forcing composure, “I just—don’t want to fuck you, or—I mean, I don’t want to fuck _up with_ you, of—of course I—I want to... the other.” That damned blush, that damned stammer. He could be as skilled an occlumens as there ever was, but awkwardness, embarrassment had betrayed him his whole life.

“Shh. You’re overthinking this. It’s not a test, Rus.” She unzipped his trousers and hooked her fingers into the belt loops. He hesitated. He hadn’t been fully undressed in front of another person in—well, not since that time at Hogwarts, by the lake. She might laugh. He hadn’t thought Lily would laugh, but she had, and then…

His shorts bulged out in the front, and she kissed his mouth once more, then his neck, his shoulders, the scar on one collarbone where his father had broken it many years ago. When her tongue flicked across one nipple his back arched involuntarily and he gasped, and she remained there a few seconds more, the tip of her tongue teasing the sensitive flesh, before making her way further down. He clutched at her shoulders, her hair, and she kissed him through his underwear, making his knees shake. How could her mouth be so warm, no, so _hot_ , against him? He felt as though he’d be scalded, but he couldn’t move away.

“Sit.”

He sank onto the edge of the tub, and she divested him of his remaining clothing before kneeling. There were more of the smaller, self-inflicted scars below his hips on each leg, and she kissed them, kissed the insides of his thighs, paused so close to her target that he could feel her breath on the most sensitive skin on his body. She remained there, her eyes on his face and a smile just playing around her lips, and he whined softly. When he tried to lean up into her, she grinned and bit at the tendon where leg met pelvis. His glans was flushed and already glossy with pre-ejaculate, and he couldn’t restrain a soft gasp when she brought her lips to the tip.

“Drink.”

He took a sip of the wine, and when he put the bottle down, she took him in her mouth and he strangled a moan. His toes curled, his fingers twisted into her hair, and he forced himself not to shove her head down. It was not quite so bad as in the closet—at least he’d made it to getting his clothes off this time—but he still peaked quickly after she stopped toying with him and began to take him deeper, enough that he could feel the contractions of her throat around him. When he did, when he felt her swallow his orgasm, he uttered a low, feral moan of the sort he wouldn’t ten minutes ago have thought himself capable. She sat back, smirked up at him, ran her tongue across her upper lip. “Feel better?”

Drained and panting, he could only nod.

She slithered out of the lacy white thong, dropped it to the floor in the pile of his clothes and her bra and robe, and stepped over him into the tub. “Come in.”

He did. The water was hot but not scalding, and he slid in shoulders-deep. She settled herself with his legs on either side of her waist, her spine pressed against his torso, and pulled one of his arms around her, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

Taking another sip of the wine, he did not speak for several minutes. He felt very warm and sleepy, more relaxed than he could remember having ever been, and began to absently swirl one finger around one of her nipples, marveling at how her breathing changed as the warm, sensitive flesh went stiff under his touch. When she took the bottle from his hand and took a sip it seemed to unlock a door in him. For nearly an hour they passed the wine back and forth and talked of things each had kept locked down for years.

“Severus, can I ask you something? How bad was your father?”

“How did you…”

“A muggle parent would have to be pretty nasty for you to join the Death Eaters.”

“Pretty nasty is a fair assessment.”

“What did he do to you?”

“I don’t know, Rina. I’d rather not think about it.”

“You don’t have to, but it might be good for you.”

“Another time, maybe. What about you? Your childhood can’t have been great either.”

She told him about having grown up in Albania, dodged his more intrusive questions, asked him how it had been as a half-blood in Slytherin. They talked about Durmstrang, about university, about Yorkshire and Hogwarts. Historical and cultural references applicable to both parts of his bloodline flew back and forth. Although part of him was screaming to restrain himself, part of him was blaming the alcohol, for the first time he felt truly _relaxed_ around another person. Even Lily—he had been so insecure around her, so hyperaware of the disparity in their social standing. As much as he loved her, as much as he enjoyed her company, there was always a tightness in his stomach when he watched her interact so effortlessly with her peers, her _equals_ , and then try to coax vulnerability out of him. Lily had been so safe, so happy and loved. Bringing her into his world, into his confidence, would have felt like sacrilege. CJ, though, did not wince at his dark, dry humor, but laughed and parried it. CJ was made of steel, harder to work with but harder still to damage.

At some point she turned to face him and ended the conversation. Straddling his hips, her body pressed close to his and they began to kiss again. The sensation of her body against his, her mouth on his, their tongues brushing occasionally, was an entirely different sort of intimacy than the orgasm he’d just had.

“My turn?” She murmured after a while, and he nodded. She stood—what a fucking _view_ —and stepped out of the tub, pulling the stopper out so the water level began to sink. There was a beam with several towels on it and after she tousled her wet hair with it it seemed to have just been blown dry. _Purebloods,_ he thought, as amused as he was exasperated. He followed her out, and she handed him another towel. He did the same as her, but wrapped it self-consciously around his waist to follow her into the bedroom. It was no less grand than the other two rooms of her quarters. The bed was large, the sheets and pillows pearl-gray silk. She brought him with her when she lay down, and he rolled onto his side to face her, kissing her again. After a few moments lying there, he began to work his way down her body the way she had done to him. The smells and tastes of her were exquisite; the clean warmth of her skin, the sweet florals of the perfumed bathwater. When he plunged his tongue and fingers into the meeting of her thighs, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, licking and sucking and curling his index and middle fingers. She was quiet—she was always quiet—but he could feel the muscles in her legs and abdomen twitching and her nails biting into his scalp. His hands shook slightly as he returned to her side in the bed, and she kissed him, ran her fingers through his hair. Long, shot through with grey, so often neglected and oily but soft and sleek from the charmed towel.

“I can—if you want to…”

“Now?”

“If you want to.”

“Of course I want to.”

“How do you…?”

“How do you want it?”

“I just want _you_.”

“Lie on top of me. I’ll guide you.”

She sighed contentedly against his lips, and he clambered on top of her, kissing her neck, her shoulders. One of her hands remained in his hair; the other traced the ridge of his spine with her fingertips, from neck down, around his hip to pull his body against hers. “There. Yes, _there_. Perfect, Severus.” Moving one of her thighs up against his ribs, he couldn’t suppress a quiet groan as he pushed and she responded, arms around him, nipping lightly at his neck. She was tighter and hotter and slicker than he could have imagined as he slowly pushed in, and he had to pause a moment to gather his breath. “Now—move with me. Like this.” She kept kissing his mouth and neck and ears, and purring her approval at his movements. “Little slower. Little deeper. Yes, that’s— _ohh._ Just like—Severus, just like that.”

A few minutes of ecstasy passed before he moaned a warning against her neck.

“That’s alright,” she breathed into his skin. “You can come. Come for me, Rus. Come for me.” He pulled back barely in time to splash across her abdomen, and the sound he made rendered him extremely grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to soundproof her quarters. Knuckles white on the sheets, a sheen of sweat on his chest, he remained still, panting, before collapsing onto his side next to her. Rolling onto her side to face him, she smiled. “As good as you hoped?”

“Better. Did you... was I...?”

“You were wonderful.”

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously and she kissed him.

“Shh. You were. And you don’t have to pull out next time, I have an IUD.” There was an odd longing in her eyes, almost sadness. “I wish you could spend the night.”

“You know I can’t.”

“That’s why I said I wish. Do you think things will ever be normal again, Severus?”

“Define ‘normal.’”

“Not this.”

His lips found her forehead, and she pulled him in close when he kissed her. “I don’t know.”

“If this war ends, and we both live. Can we keep doing… this?”

“That’s a hell of an _if_.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Rina?”

“Mm?”

“Why didn’t you ask about the… scars?”

She began to massage one of his shoulders. “I assumed you moonlight as a dragon wrestler.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously? If you want to tell me, you can. But the ones on your back are obvious, and these…” She traced the ones on his arms, “are personal, and the others, I’m guessing, are from my father.” Her thumb brushed his lower lip. “Do you want to talk about them?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I was right.”

There was a brief silence in which he lit and began to smoke a cigarette, and then gestured at his arms. “I wanted to punish myself, I suppose.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Existing, being…. the person I was. Am.”

“I’m glad you exist. And that you’re you.”

He turned his face toward her, the bridge of his nose against her forehead, and felt the familiar pang of heartbreak followed by resentment. _I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to feel this good. I’m a murderer, a traitor, a_ —

“I really like you, Severus.”

He all but snorted.

“Really.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re smart. You’re handsome. You’re—”

“Liar.” His jaw was suddenly clenched. As much as he’d struggled with transfiguration as a student, turning pain to venom had been effortless for as long as he could remember. He turned away from her. _Ugly, delusional, weak piece of shit_ , he spat at himself.

Her hand contracted on his shoulder. “Severus...”

“Shut up.”

She rolled over and sat up. Inhaling deeply, she opened her mouth, and spoiling for a fight as he was, it fueled his anger further still when she raised a hand, clenched it, closed her eyes, and let the breath out slow and long. “What’s wrong?”

She hadn’t taken the bait. She hadn’t taken the fucking bait and it drove him mad. What use was self-loathing if redirecting it outward only threw it back to him tenfold? Disgusted with himself, he pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “Nothing’s _wrong_. I don’t like pity.”

“I don’t pity you, Severus. I care about you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m too fucked up to _care about_.”

“No such thing.”

“I know it. I’ve accepted it. Don’t pretend.”

“I’m not.” A sad little laugh came from slightly to his right. “You really do hate yourself, don’t you? I know it’s hard to believe, but not everyone agrees with you.”

“I’m not a good person.” He knew he was poisoning the glow of the night, but the confession was addictive. He _needed_ to explain to her how little he deserved, how little he was worth. “I’ve done—“

“I’m sorry—you’ve been spying on my father’s little operation for how long now? I know what you’ve done, I’ve done the same things, we all have. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. I still like you, I still want you.”

Blinking hard, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling, and didn’t try to shake it off when he felt the light caress of her fingertips on his cheek. Something in her voice had pierced through the anger, the defensiveness, the bitterness, straight to some psychic wound he didn’t know was raw. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said finally. “It just slipped—“

“Slipped out. I know. Trauma fucks you up, Rus, it’s okay.” She had settled back down next to him on one elbow, her touch tracing down the hollow of his cheek, brushing his lips, his neck, his arm until her hand was in his.

He heard Lily’s voice at the same time as hers and let her kiss the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Don’t treat me like I’m more than…”

After his voice trailed off, there was a long silence that CJ broke. “More than what?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

“You’re a hell of a lot more than nothing.”

 _Bullshit,_ he thought, then, G _od, I’m so in love with you._ Horrified, he rolled off the bed and began to dress. “I should go.”

“Sure you don’t want to stay over?”

“I’ve an early class tomorrow.”

“Pity. Then get some rest, and try not to hate yourself, alright love?”

Love, she had called him, just after he had thought it, and both of them froze for a moment.

“I should go,” he repeated, voice soft and low. “I’m sorry. I’ll be seeing you.” Silently, he exited the manor and materialized in Hogsmeade. _I’m so in love with you_ , he thought again, and wanted to scream. _Shit_ , he thought, _fucking shit_. Prior to that night, he had been able to pretend that their relationship was, if not insignificant, far from something like _love_. _Love_ was bullshit. _Love_ got people killed. Fuck. She was going to be Lily all over again—and yet, and yet, had he wanted Lily anywhere near this much? Had he wanted her at all as more than a confidante, practically a sister—hadn’t he returned her grimaces when people asked if they were dating? And when he had said to Lily _It just slipped out_ had she said _It’s okay_ and _Trauma fucks you up_ and _Try not to hate yourself_?

He flinched and struck back when people innocently bumped into him, but CJ had touched nearly every part of him and, for a little while, he had forgotten to fear. Warm skin and heavy breathing and her contact, let alone her understanding, had been unimaginable comforts after all those years without. He regretted the time they’d spent talking, regretted knowing that she was _interesting_ and _witty_ and, worse, a woman who treated him not only as a human but as a man, someone who could think and feel, desire and be desired. He needed her. He could not afford to need.

_I’m in love with you. Oh God. What have I done?_


	13. 13

Touch was volatile, comfort was foreign, vulnerability was impossible. How could he possibly have forgotten? It was the alcohol—no, it was her body—her touch—her voice, her eyes, her laugh—no! It was alcohol and lust, that was all. He could not afford for it to be more. Even now he was certain she was talking to her friends back in New York, laughing at how quickly it had been over, mocking the sounds he’d made, that at his age he’d still been a virgin, how much he’d told her. Fists clenched, he paced frantically in his quarters at Hogwarts. What could she possibly have wanted him for? He’d been an idiot to trust her. And at best, if she really had ever liked him enough to want him that way, she certainly wouldn’t now after seeing how much uglier he was under his clothes. Why had she done it? Why had he?

The memory of nights he’d lain awake for hours thinking about her, sunning himself in her glow, made it worse. He had thought, in words, _I’m in love with you_ , had thought it over and over, and though it was not as bad as if he’d said it to her face, the explicitness of it was indecent. And now that it was in his head, it was there for the Dark Lord to see, and if He saw…

Could that have been what she’d wanted all along? God, he was a fool. If He knew that some half-breed scum had bedded His daughter, Severus would be dead. How could he have been so compliant? After almost twenty years of spying, he had let a few bloody hormones blow his cover. He seized an empty beaker and smashed it, then another, then a third. It did not make him feel better, and he sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “What have I done?” he inquired of the empty room, then, standing and kicking the chair over, roared, “What the fuck have I done?” The door opened and he jumped, instinctively drawing his wand, then lowered it slowly. “Can I help you?” he snapped.

Minerva McGonagall raised one eyebrow. “I think that’s what I should be asking you.”

“No. I’m fine.”

The eyebrow went higher, and the woman made a show of looking around the room at the overturned furniture and broken glass.

Through gritted teeth, he snarled, “I’m _fine_. It’s not really your business.”

“Knowing when one of my students is in enough of a state to start destroying school property is precisely my business, Severus, even if that student is now a colleague. Reparo.” The beakers reformed and settled on a shelf, safely out of the man’s reach. “What’s got you like this, lad? Normally I’d guess it was Potter, but he’s even moodier than you and he’s perfectly cheerful, or Black, but given last year’s events… Lupin?”

He shook his head, not entirely truthfully. The noble and most ancient house of Black really had given him trouble over the years, and although his lifelong antagonist Sirius was dead, his second cousin had complicated things.

“Nothing gets you out of control like a person. Now, who is it?”

“I’m not out of control.”

She stepped closer, and inhaled, and her other eyebrow rose to the level of the other one. “You’re infatuated.”

“Excuse me!?”

“You’re in a right state and you smell like perfume. Who is she?”

“No one.”

“Clearly not, by the look of you. A Death Eater? A muggle?” She chuckled. “Oh, Voldemort wouldn’t like that, would He?”

“Neither, for your information,” he retorted, releasing his left arm as quickly as he’d seized it. “And I’m not… _infatuated_. She’s just—inconvenient.”

“I forgot. The impenetrable Severus Tobias Snape does not get infatuated, only inconvenienced.”

“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t call me my father’s name.”

Her eyebrows lowered a fraction, but the amusement didn’t fade from her face. She righted the chair he’d overturned and gestured for him to occupy it, taking the other herself. He stood. “Tell old Minerva what’s on your mind before you take it out on poor Neville tomorrow.”

“Nothing’s _on my mind_ , and I don’t _take things out_ on students, Longbottom’s incompetent. I’ve just—I’ve been stupid.”

“If there’s anyone I wouldn’t believe ever had _nothing_ on his mind, it’s you. You’ve been stupid, or you’ve let your guard down?”

“You sound like Dumbledore.”

“Thank you. Which is it?”

“Both. I shouldn’t have—you know what I do for the Order. I can’t afford to… Shit.”

“Because she’s in danger, you are, or your pride is?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

What was it like? It was a need, a dependency, so foreign and so powerful that it terrified him. Love had been elusive in his life, romantic love even more so, and he had been skeptical that it even existed. Sentimentality, weakness, or else control and jealousy, or lust. What he felt for CJ—he didn’t want to call it _that_ , but when she’d said _infatuated_ it had seemed so minimizing, and no other word that he could think of in any language that he knew seemed to fit better than… the one that meant she’d penetrated his armor. “I don’t know.”

“Sounds like infatuation to me. Or is it… more?”

“I don’t know, alright? And even if I did it’d be a death sentence to both of us.”

Her mouth fell open. “It’s the woman from the Order, isn’t it? The other spy? Vol—you-know-who’s daughter?”

“What?” He knew his voice was overly defensive, obvious. “No. No, He’d never—don’t be obtuse, I’m a half-blood.”

“I see what you mean. That does… complicate things.”

“It would, if I—“

“Oh, give up, Severus,” she sighed. “For all your occlumency and denial, you’re lucky your boss can read thoughts and not emotions.”

Neither spoke for nearly a minute before Severus murmured, eyes on his hands, “CJ’s the opposite. She says it’s ‘psychology and cold-reading,’ but it’s not. I’ve never met anyone who can tell what I… Whatever I’m feeling, even before we were… whatever we were. Always. She always knows.” McGonagall said nothing. “And she acts like she cares. And she acts like—”

Voice uncharacteristically gentle, she interrupted, “Have you considered it might not be an act?”

He scoffed. “Have you met me? Have you _seen_ me? Have you seen _her_?”

“Attraction is very subjective, lad. But I will say you have good taste.”

“That sounds like something you’d say if you were trying to make someone feel less hideous. And it’s not like I’ve got the personality to compensate. You’ve said it yourself. I’m a neurotic asshole.”

“You’re an acquired taste, to be sure, but so’s caviar, and people go mad for that.”

“I’m hardly a delicacy, Minerva.”

“She might think otherwise.”

“How do I know she’s not just—d’you know what they call people like her in muggle movies? Honey trap. I’m an idiot for not thinking—“

“You said she’s a spy too.”

“How do I know she—“

“What happened tonight, Severus?”

“What?”

“You’re an intelligent man. You wouldn’t have just thought of these concerns now, after you’ve developed feelings for her—“

“I haven’t got—

“She’s come to an Order meeting, for heaven’s sake! You trusted her, and now you’re upset, and I’d like to know why that—”

“I’m not _upset_ , I...”

“What would you call this, then? You’re a good judge of character—“

“I think Potters junior and senior would make you disagree with that.”

“Never mind them, they’ve got extenuating circumstances. What changed your mind?”

His face fell into his hands. He had no idea. He hated not knowing things, especially when they so immediately concerned him, but as much and as widely as he had read, this was entirely alien.

“You saw her tonight.”

He nodded.

“Did you... go to bed with her?”

“You won’t tell anyone. Not Dumbledore. Not _anyone_.”

The woman sighed. “She was your first?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“No, I’ve just known you since you were a child. I know you’ve never seriously dated, and I know you’re too guarded to be intimate with just anyone.”

“I feel like an idiot. She’s probably laughing about it now. You know what she looks like. What she has. What she is. She could do so much better than some pity fuck.”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “You know her better than I do, but that’s… cruel in a way I didn’t get the impression she would be.”

The anger was returning. Not enough to let himself be humiliated once that night, now he had to get all self-indulgent and melancholy in front of yet _another_ person? For the first time in years he felt an irresistible urge not to die, but to hurt himself. “It’s fine. Thank you for coming down here. I’m going to go to bed, I think.” Seeing the pity in her face made him want to strike her.

“That sounds like a good idea. Take care of yourself, Severus.”

He showered, but the smell of jasmine did not quite leave him. Suppressing the desire to physically lash out, to destroy something, had become more habitual as he grew older, and had been less often necessary, but it was never easier. That it scared him made it worse. Any negative emotion seemed to anger him, and when he came down he’d be unable to distract himself from fear— _what if_ _you’re like your father_ —which would lead to depression— _you’re no better than your father_ —and his temper would rise. Was this how his father had felt? No. They couldn’t be so similar. And he’d never strike an innocent—

But he had come close. Several times he had come close. It was hard not to, when the bloody Gryffindors were so _impossible_. Hell, he’d chucked half the jars in the supply cabinet at Potter last year when he’d been left alone and gotten nosy.

“He’s been dead twenty years, idiot,” he snarled at the empty room. “Life is shit, you know that. Get over it.”

The memories of being screamed at until the man’s voice was gone the next day, of the whippings, of the humiliation and the poverty and the constant fucking _powerlessness_ were almost tactile, and he shuddered. No one but his father had touched some of those scars until that night. One temple felt as though there were a meat hook embedded in it through his right eye, and he realized only then how hard he’d been gritting his teeth. When he forced himself to relax his jaw, a wave of bleak emptiness hit, and he spent most of the night sleeplessly trying to keep his head above the water. There were no mirrors in his house. There were dark stains on the floors that even spells couldn’t fully remove. He had sat in his room as a teenager and thought, sectumsempra, over and over, watching his skin split and bleed in detached fascination. Then he had hated himself more for giving in to something so indulgent, so physical.

 _You can talk to me_ , she’d said, but that assumed that he had the words. There were no words. He spoke Russian and German and a little mediocre Latin and there were no words in any of them that would do justice to the sensation of persistent emptiness, flashes of anger and grief the only distraction from the monotony until relief seemed a fiction unattainable except in death.

Oh, he had tried. He had stood white-knuckled on the astronomy tower many nights, trying to gather the willpower to jump. He had, once, after Lily left and he took the Mark, and in a burst of primal self-defense his magic had flared out like a child’s and cushioned the impact. He had broken half the bones in his body, and though Pomfrey had cleaned him up in less than an hour she’d kept him in the infirmary all week. Potter and Black had thought it hysterically funny. So had MacNair. _Shaping up to be a good Death Eater already if you’re that dedicated to getting rid of half-breeds_. He had wondered, then, if it had been him who had left the note on his bed first year— _kill yourself mudblood_. He’d been proud of his reaction, rolled eyes and a snarky comment, but that night, his second away from home, he’d cried. It had burned the cut under his swollen eye. The first-day-back infirmary visits became a tradition. He never fully forgave his mother for telling him that magic couldn’t heal.

When the lake window began to lighten, he realized that it was dawn and he hadn’t slept more than a few scattered, fitful hours.


	14. 14

“Am I on speaker? Put me on speaker.”

“Dima?” called a male voice from the background. “Who are you talking to?”

“Eliot? It’s me! CJ!”

There was the sound of breaking glass and a squeal of excitement. “Oh my God! How are you? We’ve been so worried, you haven’t called in _months_ and we thought you—“

“I know, I know, I’m sorry—things have been crazy on my end. More than usual. I told you I might not call for a while.”

“What’s going on?” Dima asked. We keep seeing things in the news, but… CJ, it looks pretty bad.”

“It looks worse than _pretty bad_ ,” Eliot corrected. “It looks like they’re taking over.”

“Essentially. Give it another couple months and this is going to be full-on civil war.” She sighed. “I’m going to be calling less and less going forward, I think. My leash is getting shorter.”

“Are you okay?”

“For now.” Winding the phone cord around her wrist, she looked nervously over one shoulder. “What? Sorry. I got distracted.”

“Never mind. What aren’t you saying? Is it that bad?”

“No. I just…” She wondered if she should say, then thought, fuck it, who will they tell? “I’m sort of… seeing someone.”

Both men started talking at once. “Are you—“

“What’s she like?”

“Or he.”

“Come on, when’s the last time she’s dated a guy?”

“Shut up,” she laughed, feeling as though a weight in her chest was slightly, temporarily, lifted. “Dima’s the winner. It’s a he.”

“God, your timing sucks.”

“Tell me about it. What a nightmare.”

“What’s he like? Is he, you know… Can wizards bug phones?”

“No, but there are other ways to listen in.”

“Hmm, how to phrase this. Is he… like you? In terms of… what side you’re on?”

“Yes.” She laughed.

“What’s his name?”

“You _know_ I can’t tell you that.”

“I hate all this secrecy. I want my pocket lesbian back, even if she’s technically bi again.”

“I want to _be_ back. I miss when things were normal.”

There was a long silence, then, “Well, what _can_ you tell us?”

“Not much. He’s older, looks like he does heroin and hasn’t slept in six months, unintentionally goth, brilliant, psychiatric problems he won’t acknowledge. My type.”

“Entirely your type.”

“And he’s half muggle, grew up sort of both, so it’s not like with you or Draco—you know, half my references go over your heads.”

Dmitriy whistled softly. “Half-blood Death Eater. That’s… different. Is he good to you?”

“When we’re alone. It’s all very covert.”

“Right. I’m sure your parents would _love_ you being with a half-blood.”

“Absolutely. Blessing to marry. No murders.”

Eliot said, “Yeesh.”

Dima laughed. “Maybe one or two murders.”

“Just a small genocide. As a treat. Can you put Svetlana on?”

“Sure. She’s doing well. We had mice. We don’t anymore.”

“Good girl.” A faint hiss came through the earpiece of the phone. _Good girl,_ CJ repeated.

_You haven’t called._

_Things have been busy._

_I thought I might have to stay here forever._

_It can’t be that bad._

_No one talks to me. I have to mime out everything I want._

_You’re safe, though. It must be getting cold there._

_Yes. I hate it. Are you still always drunk?_

_Only when I can get away with it._

_Good. I don’t like having to make a fuss when I want to eat._ From a snake, this was practically _I love you_ , and the woman smiled sadly into the receiver.

_Miss you too._

_That’s not what I said._

_Do you want me to tell them anything?_

_Learn Parseltongue._

_Anything realistic?_

_No. You’d better be home soon._

_Okay, mum._ “El? Dima?”

“It’s so weird when you do that.”

“Tough. How’s normal life? Eliot—what’s the worst patient you’ve had this month?”

“You know Bellevue. At least I’m not in intern hell anymore. It’s all a blur.”

“What about the guy… you know…” Dmitriy suggested meaningfully.

“Who?”

“The one where you… He was agitated and then he…”

“Oh, _that one_! CJ, you’ll love this. There was this one guy who came in high as a kite on God-knew-what, floridly psychotic, trying to fight all the doctors. We had to give him _three_ ten and twos. Well, he finally passes out, and his BP gets really low, and you know what happened?”

“You OD’d him?”

“Nope. He’d been shot in the chest four times. Missed all major organs and arteries. So we rush him to the OR and when he gets out, didn’t even notice. We ask who shot him and he says—“ the man started to laugh, and the couple quoted in unison, “’Shot? No, sir, I smoke.’”

CJ threw her head back in the cramped phone booth, her laughter joining theres. “Fuck. I miss New York psych.”

“There’s truly nothing like it. Any stories from the Eastern Front?”

“Too many. Every meeting I’m looking around like—you need haldol, and you need haldol, and _you’re_ just _crazy_ _asshole, not otherwise specified_ …”

“You think?”

“Not because they’re mentally ill. Just to shut them up.”

“Is it true about the breakout? Everyone left Azkaban?” asked Dima.

“What’s Azkaban?”

“Magic supermax. CJ? Is it?”

“Yeah. My mother’s back out. I’m actually pretty sure she’s on to me. Good thing my father knows she’s delusional and I’m a good girl, or he’d take her seriously.”

Dima’s sharp breath, not quite a laugh, told her that her smirk had carried through the phone. “You’re lucky He thinks that.”

“God, I know.” She allowed herself a moment to take a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Listen, I have to go—stay safe, boys. Love you.” She hung up halfway through their goodbye and vacated the phone booth, trying to avoid skin contact with the grimy phone sex adverts pasted to the door and walls, then disapparated.


	15. 15

“My Lady?”

She looked up. Standing in the doorway with heartbreaking hesitancy was Draco.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but we used to be friends, and I was hoping I could ask your advice.”

“Oh, Draco. You know I can’t be affectionate when He’s around, but we can still be friends. Sit down. And none of the ‘my Lady’ talk, okay? That was His idea, not mine.”

He sat. “I—“ When his voice broke, he covered his face with his hands too slowly to conceal that his lower lip was trembling. After a few moments’ silence, CJ reached out and touched his shoulder. He flinched, and she squeezed gently. “I’m sorry.” His voice was higher than usual, but steady. “I’m sorry. Do you know about… what the Dark Lord wants me to… what I have to…”

“I know you have a specific assignment. I don’t know what it is. I don’t think anyone besides you and your parents do.”

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

“If you’re not _extremely_ good at occlumency, you probably shouldn’t.”

He looked up. “If I…? You want me to go behind His back?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m… alright. I’m… Maybe you can test me? And then I technically didn’t tell you, right?”

“You should be an attorney.” She smiled, and the boy returned it, a little shaky and forced. “Alright. Look at me.”

He did, and he was reasonably competent. The blocks were juvenile and obvious, but difficult to pass without pushing hard enough to break him mentally. If interrogated, that he was lying would be clear, but the lie itself could be concealed. After a few seconds, he dropped one of the walls—literal images of walls, vast stone ones—and the memory surfaced.

_“I have a job for you, Draco.”_

_“Yes, my Lord.”_

_“If you fail in this I will kill your father, and then your mother, and then you. It will be slow.”_

_The boy was silent._

_“You will respond ‘yes, my Lord,’ when I address you. Crucio.”_

_Draco’s shriek was immediate, long and high-pitched, part pain and part terror. He wet himself. He had never been hurt before. Not like this. Hexed a few times in schoolboy fights, hit by a bludger once, scratched by a hippogriff once, hit with his father’s cane twice, branded with the Mark. He had thought that was agony. This made it all look petty. This was all of the pain in his life at once, a thousand times worse. The curse was lifted after only a few seconds and he curled up, sobbing, on the floor. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—“_

_Narcissa’s knuckles were white in her lap, her face drawn and horrified, but she did not speak._

_“You will repair the vanishing cabinet in the Hogwarts Room of Requirement, which corresponds to one in Borgin and Burkes. You will bring a party into the castle and we will seize control. You will assassinate Albus Dumbledore.”_

_“But—“_

_“Do not defy me. Crucio.”_

_This time it was nearly half a minute before the pain subsided, and Draco crawled pathetically to the man’s feet. “I’m sorry, my Lord. I’ll do it. I’ll kill him, my Lord, whatever you ask, I’ll do it, I’ll—“_

_“You will not forget that Lord Voldemort owns you now.”_

_He yelped as much in surprise as in pain. It was the first time the name had been said aloud since he had taken the Mark. “Yes, my—I mean, no, my Lord.”_

_“You have until the end of this school year to fulfill this task. Do not forget what you have felt. It will be hours before I permit your parents to die. Perhaps it will be days before I grant you the same.”_

_“Yes, my Lord, I understand, I—“_

There were tears running down his face again when CJ emerged from the memory. She did not speak, but locked her arms around him, cradled his head against her shoulder. He had barely hit puberty—rather, puberty had hit him, he was far too tall for how thin he was, his limbs too long, his hands and feet too big—but he would still be smaller than her for another year or so.

“I can’t do it,” he wept. “I can’t do it, I tried, and it didn’t work, and I can’t, I don’t want to die, I don’t know what else to do—I’m trying to fix the cabinet, I’m trying, but nothing’s working and I can’t, I can’t, He’s going to be so angry and I can’t do that again—“

“Shh. You don’t have a choice. How did you try to kill him?”

“I imperiused Madam Rosmerta—the bartender at—never mind. She gave a cursed necklace to a Gryffindor girl, Katie Bell, she’s on the Quidditch team, and she’s never done anything to me but she was the first one who went in, and I—she took the necklace to Dumbledore, but she touched it on the way there, and she—she—she’s been at St. Mungo’s for _weeks_ and it’s all my fault and he’s still not dead and when she gets better she’ll tell and I think he knows it was me and I don’t know what to—“

“Shh. Shh, Coco.” The old nickname made him cry harder. “Don’t use the imperius curse. It’s hard to control without experience. And don’t use middlemen. I know it’s harder to do yourself, believe me, I do, but you can’t rely on other people to follow through properly. Let’s think. You can’t just AK him, that’s even harder—you have to really put your back into it and I can tell you now that you won’t be able to.”

“I don’t know what to do. And Snape knows and he keeps trying to take over and I can’t, if he does it my parents—he said he’s sworn to protect me but I—now he’ll just die too and I—the Dark Lord wanted _me_ to do it—he _shouted_ at me after the necklace and I think Potter knows too, he always thinks everything is my fault, and everyone always listens to him over me anyway—and I’m so tired and I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I visited my father in Azkaban and he looked so _bad_ and the dementors were horrible, I couldn’t stop crying for hours after I left and if I get arrested I’ll go crazy in there, and... And my grades are dropping and I—”

“Draco. Breathe. I’m glad you came to me. I’ll tell Severus to ease up on you. Meet me in Hogsmeade on the weekends—that’s close, right? I’ll help you with your homework and we can talk. Shh.” She did not bring up his task again until he had stopped crying, but he didn’t remove his head from her shoulder or his arms from around her torso. “Now. Dumbledore. Let’s think, alright?”

“All I’ve been _doing_ is thinking.”

“I know, love. But two brains beat one, right? No curse objects via multiple people. Too much room for error.” She started to sit back, but his arms tightened almost painfully around her.

“Please. No one’s hugged me in _ages._ Don’t go.”

“Okay.” She put her arms back around him and continued. “What about poison?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Severus does.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. He just gets angry with me.”

“He’s in a tough spot. Don’t take it personally.”

“You’re in charge of potions for the Dark Lord. You could do it.”

“Sure, I _could_ , but not as well as him.”

“Please.”

She sighed. “Fine. How will you get it to him? You can’t just tackle him and shove it down his throat.”

“Christmas is coming up. I could put it in something and…” He stifled another sob.

“Would that look suspicious? A student giving him a present?”

“Sometimes people do. Not… always. But enough.”

“That could work. You’d have to make sure it was sealed, but that’s easy enough to do.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“It’s him or me.”

“I know.”

“I’m so scared.”

“I know.”

“I have to. I have to. Am I a bad person?”

“No.”

“Have you ever? Killed someone?”

She inhaled, long and slow.

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“The last time? Eleven.”

“So right before you came to live with us.”

“Yes.”

“Were you scared too?”

“Very. If you weren’t scared, you’d be a psychopath.”

“A what?”

“Hah! Only the subject of my dissertation. Don’t get me going.”

“Dissertation?”

“Like a final paper, but you spend years on it.”

“Oh. Sounds horrible.”

“It wasn’t. It can be, but I liked the people in my lab, and I liked the research.”

“You studied psychology, right? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“I said earlier I don’t want to die, but I—mostly I don’t want to hurt again. And sometimes, I think it might be better if I… wasn’t here anymore. Is that… bad?”

“What do you mean, sometimes? Every few weeks? Every day?”

“Every day. All the time, not sometimes. I can’t stop thinking about it. The only reason I don’t is my mum would be sad.”

“I would be too. Have you thought about how you’d do it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems like everything except poison could go wrong, and students don’t have access to the ingredients for those except in class and in specific amounts. I don’t want to end up, you know. Permanently… messed up.”

“Death is pretty permanent.”

“But it can’t be worse than this. How did you do it? You lived with Him—and your mother—your whole life, until—how did you _do_ it?”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t normal. And Draco, surviving is just what happens when you don’t do anything else. You need initiative to die. You need resources. This will end eventually.”

“What if I die before it does?”

“Draco? Do you remember when you were a kid, you had nightmares all the time?”

“Mhm.”

“Remember what I said then?”

“You said you were scarier than they were and you wouldn’t let them hurt me. But this isn’t—“

“Most monsters are people. And I know my father’s much scarier than I am. But I promise, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. Do you think I couldn’t have moved out by now? Do you think it wouldn’t be easier to get my own apartment? The Dark Lord wanted to kill you and your mother after the Ministry last summer. I convinced him that that would just set Lucius against him, that Azkaban was smarter, that he’d come back more loyal. As long as I’m in His good books, you’ll survive.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Course you didn’t, you weren’t there.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re as good as my baby brother. Your parents are as good as mine. There are very few people I’d rather die than watch die, Coco. You’re one of them.”

“Ceej?” He’d responded to her use of childhood nickname with his own. Once, as a small boy, he’d seen her write _CJ Black_ on an assignment, and read it out as _Ceej,_ and it had stuck. The memory, the nostalgia, made her smile, and she kissed his hair the way she had when he was a child. Hell. He was still a child.

“Hm?”

“Do you… you know. Support. What He—“

“Be very careful with that question.”

“I don’t mean… Just that you… You were always so. Against it. You yelled at me when I said ‘mudblood,’ and you… I thought you’d changed. But you seem the same, except for…”

“I came back because I had to,” she said quietly.

“Did you want to?”

“That’s irrelevant. I had to.”

“But do you think that He—“

“You’re not a good enough occlumens to suggest things like that.”

“So you…?”

“Draco.” She lifted his head from her shoulder, cupping his jaw—just starting to lose its baby-softness for his father’s sharp angles and a trace of patchy stubble—in one hand. He was a mess, flushed pink, nose and eyes swollen and red. “Don’t ask me that. If we win, we win, my love. If we lose, we lose. As long as you and I survive, I’ll take care of you. Worry about philosophy after the war.”


	16. 16

Severus determinedly looked away from her as she entered the meeting a few breaths from late, her robes disheveled and her makeup slightly smeared. The Dark Lord did not react besides to beckon her to her seat at his right, across from Severus, and she ran tapered pale fingers through her hair to tuck it behind one ear. Severus knew and yearned for its smoothness. He forced himself to avoid her eyes, occluded for good measure the way he didn’t for any but the two old men in whose hands rested his life.

“Young Master Malfoy,” began the Dark Lord, sarcasm and honey dripping from his words. “How goes your task?”

Draco looked up. He had lost weight, and he had never had much weight to lose. There were bags under his eyes and his always pale skin looked anemic. “It… There’s progress, my Lord. I… The item my Lord wishes me to repair is… more difficult than I—“ His voice shook. The boy was clearly terrified. “Sorry. There’s progress, but it—by the deadline you’ve set it’ll be done, my Lord.”

“See that it is.” Voldemort smiled at him and Draco averted his eyes. The smile was little less frightening than his anger.But that seemed to be all the man wanted to say to him, and he shifted his attention to the much less flappable Yaxley to discuss affairs within the ministry. CJ caught Draco’s eye while her father wasn’t looking and flashed him a reassuring smile. He pressed his lips together in a feeble attempt to return it before directing his gaze back to the table. By the tension and angle of his arm Severus could tell that he was squeezing his mother’s hand, and he reminded himself to speak to the boy sooner rather than later. He was terrified, and it was from both first- and second-hand experience that Severus knew how dangerous a terrified teenage boy could be.

Voldemort finished with Yaxley and moved around the table to Dolohov, Malfoy, Lestrange, Lestrange, Gibbon, Goyle, Crabbe, Lestrange, and more names that slipped, however dangerously, past Severus’s consciousness. His attention was twofold; foremost, on the subject rather than the target of the Dark Lord’s speech; secondly, on CJ and her cousin.

“Without my summons, anticipate our next meeting in January. There is no urgent business besides that which I’ve discussed with young Draco, and of course I would hate to interfere with anyone’s holiday plans.” His smile was ice. “You are dismissed.”

Severus was too smart to be the first on his feet, but he stood quickly nonetheless, not without noticing the long, meaningful stare that Voldemort shot him before exiting the room, nor the way CJ rose to exchange quick words with a few as they left and close the door before Severus could get away. The instant it shut, the woman rounded on him, bloodshot eyes blazing. The distinct scent of peppermint mouthwash did not quite disguise an undercurrent of gin. “It’s been more than a month and I haven’t heard from you,” she hissed. It seemed to be a talent of the women of the house of Black to look down their noses even at taller people. “I can’t get into Hogwarts and you’ve not been home or answering my owls. I thought you’d been killed. You’d better have a damn good excuse for this.”

He had never seen her this angry, and he took an involuntary step back. “I’ve been busy.” As soon as he spoke he knew how pathetic of an excuse it was.

“Too busy to respond when I sent a letter _begging_ you to just give me a sign you were alive? Severus Snape, did you forget who I am? I. Don’t. Beg.” The last words were a guttural snarl that was actually frightening. Her teeth were bared, her hands in white-knuckled fists at her sides.

“I’ve been—”

“Busy? Every second of every day? I find that very fucking hard to believe. Ten seconds.” She imitated writing in the air. “Hi CJ, I’m _very fucking busy_ but I’m alright, see you at next meeting. Ten seconds.”

“While you’ve been drinking in your _manor_ ,” he spat back, “what do you think I’ve been doing? Teaching two hours a day and jerking off the other twenty-two? The Order’s had daily briefings, I’m trying to keep your precious Draco safe, _and_ I’ve been meeting with the Dark Lord one on one because he thinks that I answer to Dumbledore above Him _._ So forgive me if I’ve been less than bloody saccharine.”

“We’re going to discuss all of that in a minute.” She held up one finger. “But ten fucking seconds!” The finger connected hard with his solar plexus. “And you’ve avoided looking at me this whole meeting, and you practically bolted when He dismissed you. And— _and_ —you’re entirely in the wrong here and the last time I saw you you promised you wouldn’t yell at me again. So—”

“I’m not yelling, I’m—“

“Semantics! You don’t need to be loud to be yelling. Now tell me what the _fuck_ else is going on or you’re in deep shit with me, Severus.”

 _You’re in deep shit with me_. Those words had frozen his anger and cut him to the quick. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to try to occlude, not trusting himself to speak until he felt fairly sure he could do so in a controlled manner. “I’m sorry. I—“

“You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

“Damn it, let me talk! I’m sorry.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t do this to be cruel.”

“Had me fooled.” CJ shot him a horribly cold expression. He felt as small as when he’d been twelve and bumped into her mother saying goodbye to Narcissa at King’s Cross, and before he could stammer an apology, she recoiled, brushing a hand on her robes as though she’d gotten debris on them. _Don’t come near me, mudblood._ As small as when his father knelt on his neck and whipped him bloody with a power cord. As small as on that day he’d spoken to Lily for the last time.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

“I thought you could be _dead_.”

“You’d know if I were. And you’re not making this easy.”

“Sorry,” she spat. “I forgot that women exist to make things _easy_ for men who lash out at them because they’re too insecure to admit they’re afraid of a little human contact.” He stiffened. She let out a derisive sort of _tch_. “It’s basic emotional literacy, Severus. Get your head out of your books and you’ll see it’s obvious.”

“I’ll see myself out, then,” he retorted. “Since I’m not _so_ lacking in _basic emotional literacy_ to realize when I’m being thrown out.” Yet he didn’t turn to leave. If she insulted him, it would confirm all that he’d thought about himself between losing Lily and finding CJ, and he would run and never look back. He prayed she would not vocalize the monologue in his head screaming _stupid, dirty, pathetic, ugly, worthless—_

“I’m not _throwing_ you _out_. I’m pissed off because I know you’re smarter and better than lashing out every time someone treats you with human fucking decency.”

“Human decency doesn’t apply to me.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you. You can’t refuse affection and then act like it’s because no one wants you.”

“No one in their right mind would!” he shouted, then looked hastily over his shoulder and sank back to a low hiss. “No one’s ever bloody wanted me, why should I believe you’re any different?”

“Shh!” Rolling her eyes, she sat down on the table, legs crossed and her chin in one palm. “Even if that’s true, _which I doubt_ , you should believe it. I’m not a prude, but that doesn’t mean I just go around fucking _anyone_ , let alone kissing them and letting them sleep over afterwards. How many people have you assumed ‘don’t want you’ just because they won’t be your emotional punching bags? No—shh!—at least do that muffliato thing if you’re going to keep yelling. _Honestly_ , Severus.”

He cast it, then glowered at her, fighting a sudden burn behind his eyes. No. He would not let her know what a nerve she’d struck. _How many people have you assumed don’t want you just because they won’t be your emotional punching bag_? Jesus Christ, she’d been right on target yet again. She raised an eyebrow and he saw something worse than disdain in her eyes. It was pity. He turned away from her.

“That many?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Molars squeaked together before he realized how tightly he’d been clenching his teeth. “Like I’m one of your bloody patients.”

“It’s unethical to diagnose people you know personally, but you _really_ should look up borderline personality disorder sometime. And post-traumatic stress, for that matter, and—”

“I _said_ to stop _treating_ me like a _patient_.”

“Then start treating me like your girlfriend instead of your psychologist.”

Halfway through her sentence he’d whirled back towards her so fast he strained his neck. “My _what_?”

Looking mildly sheepish, she shrugged.

“No. No, no, no. Don’t get the wrong idea, I—I like you, but— _absolutely_ fucking _not_. It’s too dangerous. It’s too—no.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I don’t... colleagues. Acquaintances.”

At that she’d had the audacity to actually _laugh_ , and for an instant he bristled, but the genuine amusement on her face was like a cool breeze through the oppressive heat and tension of the air between them. “Didn’t get the impression you normally fuck your colleagues and acquaintances.”

“No, I don’t, but—why do I have to call us anything?”

“Us. That’s a start.” She extended a hand towards him. He stared at it for a few seconds, then, warily, stepped forward, reached out, and took it in his own. To his surprise, she turned it palm-up and brought her lips gently to his wrist before standing up and taking his elbows in his hands. “Please. If you give a damn about me at all, make yourself believe I give one about you.”

“Of course I...” He looked down. Meeting her gaze made his face burn. The way her fingers traced up the backs of his upper arms to lace behind his neck made his throat suddenly tight.He wanted to step closer. He wanted to be very far away.

“I’ll make it up to you. The Order’s meeting tonight, I have to go, but I’ll… Right. One of my colleagues is having a Christmas party,” he added impulsively. “You should… Not as a… couple… Too public, but if you came—if you wanted to—“

“When?”

“—It seems like your scene, you know, lots of champagne, lots of people, I _have_ to go to monitor the students but I’m sure you could—oh.” His face warmed as he saw her expression soften, though the set of her mouth was still annoyed. “The twenty-third. At seven. Come to Hogwarts, I’ll bring you there.”

“It’s a date. Dress code?”

“I don’t know.” _You could wear a flour sack and you’d outshine every other woman there_. “Probably formal. He—Slughorn—he’s a bit of a fop. You’ll see. I have to go, but I’ll—I’ll see you there.”

He still felt her eyes on his back after he’d disapparated.


	17. 17

Shedding his Death Eater robes for his usual ones—the same black, but less formal and classical in cut—Severus opened the door of Twelve Grimmauld Place and chose an empty spot at the table. His heart was racing, and not entirely out of fear. Lupin talked, Tonks stared at him like a pathetic kicked puppy, Shacklebolt and Moody talked more. He half-listened. He could not half-listen at the other table. Here, though, they made excuses. _You must be exhausted_ , the Weasley couple would sigh; _Did He torture you this time_? would ask the senior aurors. Exhaustion was always correct. Torture sometimes was.

He accepted the ready-made excuses when he had to. It was convenient, if humiliating. Perhaps that was their intent, he mused, staring into his third glass of firewhiskey as his eyes stubbornly kept closing. But Merlin, it had been days since he’d slept more than a few hours at once…

When the fire blazed green, he jumped nearly as much as the others. Had their eyes veered from the flames, they would have noticed that he had subsequently relaxed more than any of them.

“Is there news? I didn’t expect you to—“ began Moody.

Ignoring the auror, CJ crossed the room in a few long strides, and cupped the sharp planes of Severus’s cheeks in her soft, strong, warm hands. She brought her mouth to his as though resuscitating a drowned man. The room fell utterly silent, and the head of Slytherin stood rigid, dark eyes wide with shock, fists tightly balled. Her breath was warm on his lips when she whispered, “I worry about you, Severus,” just loud enough for him to hear.

Then his eyes closed, and his posture relaxed, and the black-clad man brought one scarred white hand to the soft warm skin of the nape of her neck, the other to the small of her back, drawing her closer still. Neither saw the expressions of comical shock on Lupin’s or Potter’s or the Weasley men’s faces, nor McGonagall’s smug, knowing smile. Neither would have cared. Severus clung to her, alcohol relaxing and emboldening him just enough that he could do so—especially when _she_ held _him_ so tightly in return. Her tongue brushed his, and his grip on her waist tightened.

“Let me have you,” she repeated in that same barely-audible whisper. “It’s alright. They won’t betray you, my—“

He silenced her with another kiss as her hands moved down from his face to his chest, and his lips traced her sculpted cheekbones and temples and jaw before he forced himself to move away.

Defensive, self-conscious, he glanced around the room, daring anyone to comment. Seeming to sense his discomfort, CJ slipped her hand into his and moved closer, standing almost protectively between him and the others, but watching his face closely. It was—as was so often the case—Molly Weasley who broke the tension.

“So, will you two be staying for dinner?”

They ate perfunctorily, although the meal was good. Severus offered the excuse of upcoming finals, CJ something apologetic about carbohydrates before she spun him into a stairway.

“I’m sorry, CJ, I’m so sorry,” he repeated, standing close to her between narrow, shadowed old walls. “I’m not used to this.”

“It’s alright. In New York, my psychiatrist told me that when you’re used to chaos and danger, safety just feels like waiting for things to get bad again. I forgive you, Rus, but don’t do it again, alright?”

“I’ll try. I can’t promise...”

“If you snap at me as a reflex, fine. But when I tell you that’s what you’re doing, consider that you might not be the smartest person in the room on _every_ topic.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh. Shh, shh. I said you’re forgiven, _this_ time. I expect better in the future.”

“I’ll be better.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it.” One freezing hand found her cheek. “Can I...?”

“Of course you can.” He brought his lips to hers. “Trauma fucks you up, Rus,” she repeated when they parted. “I know that well as you do. But you can’t just deny it or it’ll get worse.”

“I deserve—“

“No, you don’t. No one does. Oh, Severus, isn’t it obvious? You’re _scared_.”

“I am not.”

“You are. You’ve never been close with someone before and it feels like you’re giving up control, and control and independence are all you’ve ever been able to rely on. Certainly not people, especially not emotions. I get it. But you can’t go on like this, thinking you’re too strong for support and at the same time too shit to deserve it anyway.”

“I don’t need—“

“Yes, you do.”

“You don’t—“

“Everyone _needs_. Don’t you want to feel more of...” She gesticulated briefly, then kissed him again, seizing his hair and pulling hard. ”To feel _good_?”

“Do you?”

“Course I do, what kind of question is that?”

"I've never been one for indulgence."

"Indulgence?" She shrieked, and the way she tugged the handful of his hair made him wince almost as much as did her laugh. "Indulgence? Pleasure isn't all luxuries you can't afford. I’m free. Stop being an idiot and take me."

“Take you?” The relief of her forgiveness and the warmth of her touch were ambrosia after their weeks of absence, and he kissed her again, tightening his fingers in hers and slamming the backs of her hands to the wall just above her head. “Bold words.”

Again she echoed her own laugh, leaning forward to meet his lips. “It’s called hedonism. If you grow up thinking you’re basically a god, but also might die at any given moment, you learn to… _acquire goodies_ where you can.”

He moved closer, pinning her wrists against the wall with his forearm to free one hand, which he traced down her cheek, down her neck, down, down, down… “Is that what I am to you? A… _goodie_?”

“It’s on the psychopathy test. ‘ _My primary goal in life is to acquire goodies_.’ Cute, right?”

“Was that… Cleckley? _The Mask of Sanity_?”

Another giggle turned to a gasp, a hiss. “Very close! But no. It’s…” She squirmed a little under his hold and he noticed with no small thrill that her cheeks were flushing and her breathing hitched. “…Hare. _Without Conscience_.”

“You’re hardly a psychopath,” he murmured against her lips, watching her eyes flutter.

“You’d be surprised. I mean, I’m no Bundy, but— _ohh_.”

“So, _Doctor_.” He traced the curve of her breast with his palm, then, daring, slipped his hand under her robes and then up under her shirt in one smooth movement. “What else makes a psychopath?”

“Charm, charisma. Adrenaline-seeking and impulsive behavior. Disregard for one’s effec—“ she gasped. “Effect on others. And... Oh, cut the quiz, _professor_. I have more degrees than you, don’t test— _ah!_ —test me.“

In spite of himself, he grinned, inhaling the soft skin where jaw met throat and feeling her pulse thudding against his mouth. “I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

“I told you.“

“Then why should I trust a psychopath?”

“Never said I was.” Her legs shook as he slid a thigh between them, then moved in to pin her with his whole body against hers. Her hips rocked against his legs and he shivered, the hand under her shirt tightening its grip until she gasped. “Empathy. Conscience. Unfortunately, I can still feel guilt.”

“Just a touch.”

“Pathologically.” He felt her grinning when he kissed her. “Don’t disappear on me again, Severus.”

“I won’t. But we need to be more careful.”

“I can be careful if I know you’re with me.”

 _With you_. “Of course I’m with you.”

“Mm. Of _course_ you are.” She kissed his neck, his jaw, lips plush against a rough growth of two-day stubble. “You’re a mess, Rus.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so funny. You’re so intelligent and articulate and literate until someone pushes your buttons—“ she gave his earlobe a playful bite that made him shiver— “and then you’re just a stuttering wreck. Like a teenager. Don’t be offended, it’s endearing.”

“You think you’re in control here?” He flexed his thigh, pushed it upwards against her, and the sound of her exhalation against his ear would be enough to make hairs rise on his neck for weeks. “You might be the… wordsmith… but I’m—“

“Just fuck me.”

She might be the wordsmith, he would think later that night, but she was no less in control for it. In that moment, though, he thought little, only felt as he pulled down on his trousers and up on her robes and shoved deep into her body, and God-Merlin-Christ it had been too long. When he let her arms fall, she wrapped them around him. He clung to her in the same way and dug his nails into her thighs as she clenched them around his waist. _I love you,_ he thought again as he spent himself inside her, but said only, “You’re… I missed you, I’m sorry.”

“Shh. Shh-shh.”

Nestling his cheek against her shoulder, he closed his eyes, barely able to support both of them as she squeezed with her legs and he with his fingers. But the way she ran her fingers through his hair and against his skin… He sighed softly and almost missed it when she spoke.

“Where do you live? When you’re not at Hogwarts, I mean. So I can visit.”

“I don’t know, Rina. It’s not really your kind of... It’s hardly a manor.”

“You think I had a manor in New York? My place there‘s a one-bed in a building that looks like a crack den. You know Lou Reed? It’s Lou Reed New York.”

“It’s not like that, though. It’s... Hogwarts doesn’t pay much, and my parents never had much money, and I—“

“I don’t care.” She kissed him again. “What’s the address? Are you in the Floo network? I’ll drop by when I can.”

“Seventeen Spinner’s End. You’re bloody impossible.”

She beamed and kissed him, once on each cheek. “Thank you. I’ll come by.”


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! My snake's shedding for the first time and I've been a worried mama, and I just got a bike so I've been zooming around NYC to distract myself. The good (???) news is that now I have the flu/covid/pneumonia/some of each? so I'm going to be in bed with nothing to do besides work on this fic and watch Law and Order SVU reruns. 
> 
> (Note: Law and Order SVU/Harry Potter crossover, "Law and Auror," about the chaos that 100% was Moody mentoring Tonks? Yes? Has anyone written about this? If so pls send to me because that is EXACTLY my niche?)

He’d never been one for parties.

Not that he’d been invited to many, aside from those that followed the Death Eater meetings. His parents had thrown a few, when he was young enough that the memories were cloudy, but that was before the new couple with the quiet son had made a reputation. A violent man and his strange wife, who got even stranger when she drank. Sometimes it was like she was speaking another language, her broken English and the alcohol making her hard enough to understand without talking about curses and potions.

“Superstitious fuckin’ foreigners,” Tobias would excuse, half-carrying her out of the bar and slamming her against the wall. It was like a dance, at first a Friday night and then a daily duet. “You dumb drunk cunt, with the kid with you? Couldn’t wait for me to get home from work?”

Eyes glazed, she seemed to see the boy at her side for the first time, and she ruffled his unkempt hair a little too roughly, all but falling onto him. “Kauf mir noch ne Flasche, liebling.” She passed him a few coins, and Tobias snatched them away before the boy could get her the requested drink.

“Don’t do that. Whatever she said, don’t do it. This is England, woman, the boy’s English, he’s enough an outcast without getting pinned as a damn Nazi too.”

Her face hardened, and she hit her husband, then burst into tears and collapsed into his arms. “Don’ say that, Toby. I’m sorry. I can stop drinking, I can stop… Please. Don’t go, bitte, I need you, I love you, I—“

“Let’s get you home. Boy! Get the door.” He threw the keys at the child, who jumped, then scampered to pick them out of the gutter. The flinch was not without reason. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, and there were bruises around his thin white neck. He kept looking over his shoulder, but the act seemed more out of shame than fear. It wasn’t necessary; no one outside of a homeless man nursing a paper bag was bored enough to watch what was by then a frequent spectacle, but he’d made a friend that summer, and Lily didn’t know what his parents were like. He thought he’d die of embarrassment if she saw his father yelling and throwing punches or his mother falling over blasted. She’d never want to hang out with him after that, he imagined. In fact, she witnessed both. The pity with which her parents treated him after she told them was more humiliating than he could have imagined.

Severus shook himself, and nervously adjusted the collar of his dress robes in the mirror. He wasn’t one for parties, and here he was about to go to the worst kind of one, full of celebrities and socialites. He had forced the working-class northwest out of his voice, no one knew his background, but Christ he still felt the residue of poverty on his skin and he could never shake the thought that others could see it too. Disgust flared in the pit of his stomach and he turned abruptly away from the mirror, skin crawling. It happened sometimes, waves of self-loathing so strong it nauseated, but not now, not _here_ , not when he’d been _trying_ so bloody hard…

Clenching his fists, he suppressed the bile rising in his throat, tightly closing his eyes and opening them only at a knock on the door. Of course some first-year had to have a crisis _now_ , he thought, and opened it.

“I was going to meet you at the gates,” he said stupidly.

CJ beamed. “Minerva let me in. Look at you! You clean up alright.”

It was the worst thing she could have said. The voice that he’d just managed to suppress roared back to life— _you’re worthless, you’re disgusting, you’re worse than scum and you don’t deserve to kill yourself_. He wanted to hide, to curl up somewhere alone. _She_ looked far too good for him in a black muggle suit, perfectly tailored to her body over a top so low-cut he—was she even _wearing_ a top underneath? He would have been aroused if he wasn’t distracted by his own inner monologue. He forced himself to reciprocate her kiss, horrified and sickened that she’d had to endure his touch. God, she’d even let him _fuck_ her. How foul of him, how selfish, to have inflicted his innate repulsiveness on her, she couldn’t have wanted—

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Severus…”

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like _nothing_. Would you rather stay in?”

“No. I’m sorry.” He forced a strained smile. “Just thinking.”

She kissed him again, embraced him tightly. “Then let’s get you out of your head.” She arched her back to press seductively against him, and he flinched away. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You seem really upset.”

“I’m not _upset_ ,” he hissed. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“It’s okay. Tell me.”

“I’d rather not. Let’s go.”

“If you say so.” She looped her arm in his. Her shoes—black stiletto heels because of course they were, the soles the same glossy red as her lipstick—gave her an inch over him in height.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”  
“Nothing. Snapping at you.”

“I appreciate the apology, but not needed. Do you ever put your hair up? It would look sexy back. You have _great_ bone structure.”

He recoiled when she tucked it behind one ear. Why did she have to keep drawing attention to his appearance? “I don’t know, CJ, I—“

“You hide behind your hair. I used to do that too, before I cut it all off.”

“Please. Stop. I don’t…”

“You’re _really_ depressed, aren’t you.”

It was not a question, and he started a little at her bluntness as she stood in front of him, eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side. “I…”

“Where are you? Mentally, I mean.”

“I’m here. I’m here, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re locked up in your head. What’s going on?”

“Stop. Please.”

“You can’t keep everything in—“

“Fucking hell, Carina,” he roared, whirling away from her, “I said I don’t want to talk, stop it!”

He had slammed his hand down so hard on his desk that it trembled and a book fell off. The voice in his head relished it. _Now she’ll see. She’ll see you’re just another angry loser who who doesn’t deserve to lick her boots, she’ll see you’re trash like they all do in the end and_ —

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the table, afraid to look up at her.

“No, Rus. I am. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.” She raised a hand, pinky extended. “Friends again?”

Numbly, he nodded, and when she didn’t lower her hand, raised his own and linked his finger with hers. “I’m sorry. I’m—“

“Stop apologizing.” She kissed his cheek, squeezed his fingers. “Sure you want to go? We can ditch if you’d rather.”

“No. We’ll go.” He realized he hadn’t complimented her and the hatred of himself intensified. You were supposed to do that sort of thing, and he hadn’t, and _God can’t you do anything right you stupid worthless_ —“And I meant to say—you look… incredible.”

“You’re a doll. Thanks. Well, let’s go, or all the good wine will be gone.”

He took her arm and escorted her to the suite of classrooms where the party was set. The jubilant atmosphere felt crushing, oppressive, only further focusing his attention on what the hell was wrong with him, what was so broken that he couldn’t even—

“Severus!” Slughorn boomed. Clearly he’d had a head start on the good wine. “And your guest! Miss… or is it Mrs…?”

The man froze. If she introduced herself—of course the man would know who she was, his obsession with the who’s-who of high society would ensure it, and then—  
“Doctor, actually. Katrina… Baryshnikov.”

“Like the dancer! And a doctor—are you, you know… muggle-born, then?”

“Half-blood. He’s a _distant_ relation.”

“I see, fascinating! I take it you went to Durmstrang. I hate to presume a lady’s age, but is there any chance you’re acquainted with the Quidditch prodigy Viktor Krum?”

“Krum’s a bit younger, but yes! We were on one of the worse school teams together. This is when he was a first year, mind, I was never very good at Quidditch and he was playing varsity by the time I graduated.”

“But you played together, and when he was so young! You can’t have been a seeker as well, you’re so tall—“

“It’s the shoes.”

“—ha! But a chaser?”

“Beater. I have what Headmaster Igor Stepanich called, ah, ‘problems with aggression that need to be productively redirected.’”

“My! Remind me never to cross you! So, how did you and Severus cross paths? I had him as a student, you know.”

“You’ll have to tell me how to blackmail him. We met at a potioneers’ convention in Minsk.”

Severus had never been to any such convention, nor had he ever left the UK, but did not see any reason to mention that. Death Eaters didn’t provide much of a meet-cute.

“But you’re a doctor, not a potioneer. Do you really… sew people? The wounds, I mean?”

She roared with laughter. “I’m not that kind of doctor, but yes, they do. I’m a forensic psychologist.”

“And what does a forensic psychologist do?”

“Broadly, my focus of study was epigenetic contributors to psychopathy—the interaction between biological and chemical, and social and environmental factors that consistently produce psychopathic personality traits.” Severus could have sworn he saw her eyes glaze over as she gave the heavily rehearsed response. “I currently work with mentally ill prison inmates, but I plan to go into law enforcement consulting as a behavior analyst once I have more experience.”

“Thrilling! I would love to hear more. May I offer you a drink?”

“Sauv B would be great.”

“Sauv B! Sauvignon blanc, I take it? How original!” And he sauntered off towards a heavily laden drinks table being closely monitored by McGonagall and Flitwick.

“Baryshnikov?” Severus whispered.

“I panicked. Foreign is generally safe. Just be glad he didn’t ask too many questions about that, I don’t know shit about ballet and I couldn’t do a jete if my life depended on it. Grand or otherwise.”  
“I didn’t know that your dissertation was so… relevant.”

“My research question was, ‘why are my parents like that and how can I not be like that,’ phrased academically. Thanks—oh, I like you. _This_ is a pour, none of that ‘five ounce’ nonsense.”

Slughorn finished his interrogation of CJ’s bloodline, then saw Harry Potter and all but ran to greet him. The woman turned to her date and raised her eyebrows. “Bit enthusiastic, isn’t he?”

“Bit.”

“Have a drink.”

He followed her to the table, determinedly ignoring McGonagall’s knowing smile, and threw back a firewhiskey, then a second. She and Flitwick glanced at each other, but did not comment—it was so rare that their youngest colleague let his hair down, and he’d been _so_ stressed lately…

 _You make me sick, you useless bastard_ , said the voice in his head, and he retorted, _I am going to drown you_ and drank again.

“Easy, Rus,” CJ murmured, catching his arm as he made to refill his glass. “Slow down.”

“Pot, kettle,” he muttered back. There was too much concern in her smile for his liking.

By the time Draco burst in, half restrained by Filch and shouting something about gate-crashing, his head of house was thoroughly intoxicated. “I’ll deal with him,” he told the room at large before seizing the boy none too gently by the scruff of his neck and escorting him into the hall.

Draco squirmed out of his grip. “I wanted to—are you drunk?”

“No. Stop drawing attention to yourself.”

“Merlin, you _are_ drunk!”

“I’ve had a few. I’m not drunk.” Keeping the boy in focus was proving quite difficult, and he added in a whisper, “Don’t you have something you’re supposed to do?”

“I’m working on it! You know, C—Our Lady said she’d order you to back off.” He lifted his chin stubbornly. “I’ll tell Her if you don’t.”

“You do that,” he snapped, “And while we’re on the subject, She’ll be none too pleased when the semester’s out and you still haven’t taken the appropriate—“

“Back _off_ , Snape!” His voice cracked.

“If you were to be expelled—“

Draco was obstinate, and despite his claiming the contrary, Severus _was_ too drunk to keep fighting with him for more than a few minutes. The boy was shaping up to be quite the time bomb, When Draco left him with a few choice words in his wake, Severus leaned against the wall, massaging his temples for a moment before turning to return to the party. Yes, he’d shut up the vicious internal monologue, but he’d shut up most coherent thought with it. When he stumbled back to the party, it was to be immediately ushered by CJ into a corner.

“What was that? Is he alright?”

“Fine. He says you’d _order me to back off_.”

“I said I’d _ask_ , not _order_. But do it for me, alright? Poor kid’s about to snap.”

“Poor kid’s almost of age. When I was his age—“

“He’s not you, Rus. He’s not tough.”

The man closed his eyes. This was too exhausting.

“Oh, fuck it. Let’s get you home.”

Slowly, the voice was sinking its claws back in, and he shook his head. “No, Rina, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Come on.” He let her escort him back to his office. “I’m staying over,” she informed him, already half-out of her suit. She hadn’t, in fact, been wearing a shirt under the jacket. This time, the voice shut up at the sight.


	19. 19

Short hair tangled in his fist, on knees and elbows with her head pulled back, Voldemort’s daughter matched Severus’s panting with her own. The sound when he gave an especially hard tug made him pull her back onto her hands, and then further back into his lap. He admired the smooth curve of her back, the defined muscles of her shoulders and obliques. He wondered what they’d look like painted with his seed, and shivered, ramming into her to the hilt, muffling a throaty groan with her shoulder, tasting the salt of her sweat, not caring that his teeth would leave a mark. She began to swirl her hips in circles and he stilled her by biting his nails into one thigh.

“Wai’. Wai’. Need a min’ or I’ll—wai’.”

She reached up, took his hand out of her hair, slid off him and turned to face him. The absence of her soft wet heat was agony. “On your back. When you’re ready.”

It was an order and he obeyed, catching his breath and trying to concentrate on that week’s lesson plans. Slowly, he gathered himself. “Go on.”

This time, she straddled him, sank down until the sharp peaks of his hips dug into her thighs. He almost closed his eyes, but the crescent shadows under her breasts and the inverse V that her jaw made when her head fell back made him force them open again. When her hips began to roll he thought there could be nothing better. Then she gripped his throat with one hand and his hair with the other and squeezed. For a moment his vision went white. Her hair tickled a warning on his forehead the instant before she bit his lower lip, pulled, repeated. The fingers around his neck were just loose enough that he could—barely—breathe. He would not have expected the sensation to pump still more blood from heart to groin.

When she went rigid and began to contract around him, her nails making tiny red indents on his chest and her grip tightening until his vision began to darken around the edges, he exploded. Her hand relaxed and he gasped for breath. Shock waves radiated through his body, making his extremities tremble and his eyes roll back and flutter closed. Without letting him slip out, she lay on his chest, kissing the base of his jaw. Both shone with sweat and hearts raced.

“Fuck,” he sighed, after a minute or an hour.

“Agreed.” Her voice was still shaky and breathy.

He allowed himself a few minutes of blissful feeling before the dark tendrils of thought sank back in. The woman on his chest blinked up at him.

“Knut for your thoughts.”

“Memories.”

“Of?”

“Rather not.”

“That bad?”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“That’s not an answer.” She gave his waist a gentle squeeze. Again, a touch that he would have flinched from were it anyone else. “Talk to me, Rus. I can practically see that hippocampus lighting up.”

“My father… it’s a long story.” He wasn’t ready to tell her, not when she was sober enough to remember the next day. They lay on their sides, facing one another. Turning his head slightly to bury nose and lips in her hair, he articulated what he had been afraid to for weeks that felt like years. “Sometimes I think I’m like him. And my mother…”

“You’re not. But I understand. Sometimes I’m like my parents, too.”

“You’re nothing like—“

“Yes, I am. You haven’t seen that side of me, I hope you never do, but I can be. And you’re not the same. I’ve never seen you properly _drunk_ , but I’ve seen you drink, and I’ve never felt threatened by you. Besides, if you ever hit me, I’d kill you.” She smiled, kissed his collarbone, brushed a fingertip over his bottom lip. “When I get angry—really pissed off, not just annoyed—“ murmured CJ, “My voice goes flat the way my father’s does. I look _exactly_ like him, before all the horcruxes and curses. Obviously she never saw a psychologist, but my mother was _textbook_ manic, and I’ve been on meds since I had my first break when I was twenty. And honestly? I like power. I like being in control. I like authority, and it scares the—“

“So if you’d gone to Hogwarts you’d have been a Slytherin. Plenty of people like control.”

“Not the way I do.”

“You’re not them.”

“No, but there are parts of them in me. And just because you might have a few parts of your parents in you doesn’t mean you’re them, either.” He inhaled her sweat and perfume, jasmine and honey. The smell steadied him and he nodded into her hair; she raised her head and kissed him, her nails gliding from waist to neck and her palm warm against his skin. With a soft sigh, she wriggled even closer to him under the blanket. “You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?”

“Very funny.”

“You really don’t. At all.”

“Well, let’s see—your opinion versus everyone else who’s—“

“Even if that’s true,” she murmured, “which it’s not—I’m not in bed with _everyone else_.” Even he didn’t have an acerbic retort to that, and he closed his eyes, tightening the arm around her waist. She squeezed his shoulder. “ _I_ think you’re beautiful.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful. _I’m_ just—”

“Beauty isn’t a finite resource, you know. Severus?”

“Mm?”

“I can tell you’re hurt. You don’t need to, but you can tell me. Anything. I’m impossible to shock.”

“I’m not a—“ His voice came out harsher than he’d expected, and he cut himself off, falling silent, breathing hard for a few moments before he rolled onto his back. Why the hell was he angry with her? He hoped she wouldn’t speak, because if she did, he wouldn’t be in control of his reply. With shaking hands, he lit a cigarette and took a slow drag. He thought she’d fallen asleep when he breathed, several minutes later, “I’m sorry, Rina.”

“I’ve always liked it when you called me that. Rina. It’s special. Just yours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh. I won’t push you. Just—know I’m here.”

“No, it’s—“

“It’s okay.” He found her hand in the darkness and she squeezed his reassuringly. “Listen. Can I go psychologist on you for a minute?”

“Fine.”

“You know what PTSD is, right? What you’re feeling is predictable. I know what being a spy is like. And I at least have some authority. And I had a _break._ I got to have a normal life, go to uni, date, work shitty jobs—I have friends back in New York, good friends, who don’t care where I’m from or who I’m related to. _And_ I’m not expected to be a double agent—my father has no idea what I’m doing. No one on our side does either, except for the Order. And with your childhood being how it was, you never really caught any slack. You must have felt so isolated. You must _still_ feel so isolated.” She hesitated, then continued, “Do you feel like… if you start thinking about things, you won’t be able to stop? You’ll just spiral until you... snap, get lost in some kind of black hole of memory?”

He would not have chosen those words, but they fit better than anything he could have articulated in that moment. “Yes.”

“I know how that feels, Severus. I really, really do. And as stupid and cliche as it sounds, I promise talking helps. At least for me. And it gets easier with time.”

“Not for me.”

“Have you tried?”

“I can’t.”

“Maybe not right now. But when you’re ready.” When she shifted in the bed, moving closer to him again, he didn’t move away, and she snaked one arm around his waist, stroked his back. It still stung from where her nails had torn his skin. Her lips found the pulse in his throat, found his jaw. “I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

He hesitated. Part of him wanted to recoil, to lash out. No one had ever _still been here_. It felt so strange, but God, so _good._ “Please, be patient,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m not used to—this. I’m not good at it. Relationships. Emotions. People. I don’t… Well, you know. Being a spy. And everything else. Most people… don’t understand.”

“It’s alright if it takes you a while to… relax. Open up. All I want is for you to try.”

“I will.”

“Good enough for me.” She looked up, brushed her lips to his, smiled, traced his spine with her fingertips and gently squeezed his shoulder. “Severus? Is it alright if I stay over? I don’t want to leave you.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Fuck _safe_.” She smiled, a little sadly. “I care about you. I like being around you.”

The meaning was apparent, but he was glad she hadn’t used the word _love_. That would have been too much. “Rina, I...” He clung to her, and she to him, and as her breathing grew slow and even he held her more tightly. Despite his exhaustion, though, despite the comforting warmth of the body next to his, he couldn’t fall asleep, so he rose. Dressing haphazardly in on a sweater and a pair of pants off the floor, he descended the stairs, poured a very generous glass of whiskey, and seated himself on the couch. He wasn’t sure how much time passed as he refilled the glass over and over, watching people stagger home from the pub the same way his parents had so many years ago. Something painful and heavy had condensed in his chest, and he almost wanted to give in to it— _just keep drinking until you get the nerve up for your next sip to be poison. CJ has Percocet in her bag. You could take it all. Put a bag over your head. Cut your throat_. The thoughts were always on the fringes of his consciousness, but they rarely presented with such strength these days. Oh, in his teens and twenties they had been constant, but since then… And funny that they returned _now_ , when he’d just bedded a beautiful woman who all but loved him. He knew better than to believe her. Nearly forty years without hearing it once, only for it to be someone like _her?_ But still—the delusion was a pleasant one.

The stairs creaked and he looked over his shoulder. CJ was there, in black underwear and one of his shirts, and she raised a hand and smiled in greeting. “Hey.”

Severus looked up, and gave the woman a small nod. She settled on the couch next to where he sat with his legs curled under him, staring fixedly out the window, and leaned gently against him.

Her hand found his, and she took a sip of his drink, grimaced at the burn. “You can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“You never think about nothing.” After she drained the glass, her hand gently squeezed his thigh, but she did not pry further.

They sat in silence together, looking out onto the dark street, for a long while. _Do you feel like if you start thinking about things you won’t be able to stop? Like you’ll just spiral until you’re completely psychotic, lost in a black hole of memory?_ Tears were closer than they had been in a very long time. Since Lily died, he had not wept except from physical pain, and even then only enough times to count on one hand. Softly, hating the tremor in his voice, “I don’t know why you associate with me,” he said softly, almost without realizing he had spoken.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“You’re… much too good for me.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice was so gentle that it made him want to scream. “You’re so intelligent and rational except when it comes to yourself.”

“You pity me.”

“No.” Her grip tightened on his thigh and he fought simultaneous urges to collapse into her arms and to recoil. “I admire you. I like your company. I want to be with you, I—”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?“

“Don’t.” Unknowingly, he echoed the werewolf who had watched his adolescence spiral into Hell. “I’m a decade older than you. I’ve no money, I’m a half-blood, I—you could do better, much better, not some… Not _me_. And if the Dark Lord finds out about—whatever this is—we’re both dead.”

“I‘ve known I might be killed since the revival. I’m sure you’ve known for longer.”

“If this ever ends—if you want a conventional life, I can’t give that to you. I couldn’t afford a better place than this or I’d have moved out years ago. And I—I’ve never wanted to be a parent. I’m not a—“

“Good, so you’ll get a vasectomy and I can finally get this damned IUD out. I was Draco’s second mother for the first ten years of his life. A toast to first daughters of pureblood families. Never liked kids much anyway. And money? Don’t be daft. You know who I’m related to, although I’d likely donate most of it, it’d feel too weird shopping with blood money. Bad vibes, you know?”

“You don’t understand. In school, I had a friend. Lily. She was the first—the _only_ one who treated me like a person. I fucked it up and now she’s dead because of me. I can’t watch that happen with you.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Everyone I’ve ever cared about dies.“

“Oh, _Severus_ ,” murmured CJ, and suddenly she was holding him, her soft, smooth cheek against his unshaven one, her arms around him. Part of him screamed to retreat, to isolate—if she wasn’t repulsed by him already, she certainly would be after this. Even in his drunken state he knew that he’d be mortified the next day, but he had never been held like that before, and the way she was rubbing his back in slow, long ellipses was a better sedative than any liquor, and slowly he looped his arms around her waist.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her shoulder a short while later.

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t—“

“Shh.” He didn’t move for a while longer, savoring her arms around him. “Severus?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to tell me about her? Lily?”

He sighed, sat up a little straighter. _Yes_ , he wanted to say, but it caught in his throat. Being close to someone else felt like a betrayal. “I can’t. Not now.”

“That’s fine.” She kissed him on the cheek, and as he shivered, jaw clenching, the last of his guard fractured.

“She was just… _good_. There was nothing else in my life that was good. And she was always—“ Swallowing hard, he continued, “Probably wasn’t _rich_ , but to me—everything at her house was new, and worked properly. They had a television. Her parents never screamed, or hit her, or each other. And I was this… this _scrawny_ little _freak_ , and she let me sleep at her house when things were… were bad at mine.“ Closing his eyes for just too long to pass it off as a blink, he shook his head. “God, I loved her. Not like—“ _not like you,_ he thought. “Not in a romantic way, just… She was the only person who saw anything in me besides… I don’t know what she saw. But she didn’t hate me, or laugh at me, or—not until I deserved it.”

“She was the first one who saw your humanity.”

He nodded slowly. “We went to school, and I was so _excited_. I thought things would be better, and it only got worse. There were these four Gryffindor boys that _hated_ me. I couldn’t walk down a hallway without being jumped. And everyone in Slytherin treated me like scum because I’m a half-blood, and the older I got... I was so _stupid_. So stupid. She kept _telling_ me not to, and I don’t think she ever guessed how badly I… She was all I had. But she had other people, she had so many friends, and her parents, and the teachers all adored her—how could they not?” He paused, draining, refilling, and half-emptying his glass. “And then I overheard that fucking prophecy.” His eyes were still dry, but his voice cracked. “I didn’t know it was about her. Well, her son, but—her. And I told Him. The Dark Lord. When I found out, I _begged_ Him not to go after her, but…”

“What happened?”

“She was Harry Potter’s mother.”

CJ’s sharp intake of breath communicated her comprehension. “Is that why you changed sides?” He nodded, only halfheartedly resisting when she took the glass from his hand and drained it herself, wincing at the taste. “You’re going to be _so_ hungover.”

His smile was weak, but there. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for…”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you did. I want to know you, and this seems like a… pretty significant part of you. So… what happened?”

“I called her a... mudblood.” His voice was its normal low timbre again, but still shook. “Things had been… strained. She didn’t like my friends. Her friends thought she was too good for me. They were, but… Then that group of boys… They stripped me. In front of—of most of the school. And she _laughed_. I didn’t think. They’d been on me about joining up with the Death Eaters, they said if I joined, He’d pay for healer training, get me into a good program, and it wouldn’t matter that I was a half-blood, and I’d be respected, and I—everything I wanted to hear. And then I called her that, and... I joined that night. She never talked to me again. I regretted it as soon as I said the vows, but it was too late, and without her they were all I had, and...” He trailed off in something like a plea, willing her to understand.

“You’re so brave,” she murmured, and he uttered a hoarse, sarcastic laugh.

“Bullshit.”

“You are. You could’ve just… convinced yourself it was the right idea, and that you didn’t have a choice, and… Maybe it took longer than it could’ve, maybe it would’ve been ideal to never have become one in the first place, but turning on the Dark Lord? No one does that.”

“You did.”  
“I never joined, either,” she said dismissively. “I was forced into it. I don’t remember not having the Mark. Leaving was easy. God, Severus, you’re killing yourself over this.”

“I killed her.” He looked up. Normally so controlled, so stoic, and he was looking at her through bloodshot, too-bright eyes, his hands shaking. “The one good thing in my life, and I killed her. I don’t think I’m meant to… to be around people. To be close to people. Not when I—the things I’ve done. Do you understand why I can’t—“

“Guilt,” murmured the woman, “is a terrible motivator. It doesn’t seem like that at first, but then it takes over until every decision you make seems like the wrong one.”

“I’m—how can you stand to look at me? Let alone have sex with me!“ The words were coming up like vomit. “I’m… _look_ at me! I’m disgusting. I’m a killer. I’m not… right, I’m like a curse, I’m not—not supposed to, to love or—“ He froze. No, no, he couldn’t have said it, he—

She pulled him into her arms, stroked his hair, and he _broke,_ shaking like he was having a fit, his sobs agonizing. “Shh. Shh, Severus,” she murmured.

“No wonder you lash out. I don’t think you’re ever going to feel like you’ve made up to her. You don’t owe anyone your suffering. Merlin knows you’ve suffered enough.”

“I’m _tired_.” His voice was rough and tight. “I’m so tired I want to off myself.”

“I know. And I—look at me, Rus.” She tilted his chin up, wiped his tears, pressed her brow to his, noses touching. “You are not a curse. You are not a bad person.”

“No. You don’t understand. If I care about you, if we—it puts you in danger. I can’t do that. I can’t kill you too.”

She laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m also a spy. Pretty sure we’re both neck deep in danger regardless.” He was grateful for the prolonged, warm silence that followed.

“My mother was…” he murmured. “Hell, you’re the psychologist. There was something wrong with her. She drank more and showered less over the years, stopped doing magic. I don’t know if she even could at the... at the end. She couldn’t keep a job. My father too, but less so. So she’d start shit with him—they fought _constantly_. He’d get violent, she’d get drunk. Then Thatcher fucked the unions and the factory shut down and things got bad. We never had food or heat, almost got evicted a couple times. Then my mother killed herself and...” He smirked, bitterness in every line of his face. “He blamed me. I found the body. He said—he said that she did it because of me. He beat me so bad I… I pissed blood for two days.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“School wasn’t any better. Pretty much showed up with a target on my back, hundred pounds soaking wet and half of it nose. Had secondhand everything, accent, bad stammer, bad skin, bad teeth… You’ve no idea how much time I spent learning to talk like this. I used to write down things Lucius said and try to pronounce them the way he did. Got shit for that too. Trying too hard. Forgetting my place. It was hell, being a half-blood. I was a freak to muggles and second-class to everyone else. I guess that’s why I called her that, isn’t it, they said it to me enough but at least I wasn’t…” He closed his eyes. “One group of boys set a werewolf on me once. Thought it was hilarious. I got in more trouble than they did.”

“A _werewolf_? And they didn’t get expelled!?”

“They were rich, popular, good-looking purebloods. I’m not any of that _._ ”

“But you could have _died_!”

“Well aware. Wished I had. Tried to off myself and… Obviously I couldn’t even do that properly. Worst fucking year of my life, that. Thought it couldn’t get worse after I took the Mark, but…”

“But they had you kill your father.”

The bitterness in his face deepened with his sneer. “Easiest kill I’ve ever had. Didn’t beg, I’ll give him that. Just spat in my face and said I didn’t have the bollocks. Wish I hadn’t slit his throat, though. I didn’t expect it to be so messy.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking much older than he was. “I’m sorry. Makes me sound like a sociopath.”

“Psychopath,” she corrected automatically. “No, it doesn’t. I’m here to take mine out.”

“You don’t know what he was like.”

“I believe you.”

“Used to stand on my neck and beat me with a power cord until I passed out. Used to tell me I was worthless, ugly, stupid... Everything else I could take, I knew it was true, but… but I’m not a coward and I’m not stupid. That was the _one_ thing I liked about myself, and he wanted to take it like he took everything else. I can’t remember not hating myself.”

“God. Even my parents didn’t insult me like that.”

“Surprising.”

“Not really. I’m the heiress, remember? They wanted me to have the ego for it. It was more physical, except for... Well, never mind. Point is there were rules, and there were consequences. It wasn’t... personal.”

“Still fucked. I can’t take more than an hour of cruciatus without falling apart. Can’t imagine being a kid and...”

“And I can’t imagine having the people supposed to take care of you talk to you like that. No wonder you’ve got such low self esteem.”

“So how did they talk to you?”

“My father was… Cold. Never mean, not to me. Just cold. There were rules and if I broke them there were consequences.” She sighed. “Bellatrix could get pretty nasty, but never in front of my father. And since she was the only one who called me anything but ‘genetically superior royalty,’ it was easy to ignore. Even Rodolphus...” Trailing off, she sighed, and Severus felt her shudder.

The man hesitated. “Rina? What about Rodolphus?”

Her laugh was uncharacteristically nervous. “You can guess. Everyone knows he likes kids. It’s funny. I didn’t really mind until I was old enough to understand it. He always got me good and drunk first and said how pretty I was. And he wasn’t rough. So even he was... Being touched in a way that didn’t hurt was...” She sighed, head falling forwards. “Makes me sick, though. Looking at him. Like I’m helpless again.”

“How old were you?”

“Six. The first time. Well—he didn’t actually rape me until I was… ten? Eleven? Right before they got arrested. But it was…” She shuddered again.

“That’s vile. I… I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“The students are much older than that, and I’d never even _consider…_ Disgusting.”

“Concur.” There was a drawn-out silence. “Dumb question, Severus, but you... You’re not done with me because of this, are you? It’s too much baggage for a lot of people. I don’t date men, not normally, you’re only the second one I’ve slept with since him, actually, and I know men can get weird about—“

“Ditching you over baggage would make me quite the hypocrite. Though I might kill Rodolphus next time I see him.”

“Don’t bother. My father hates factionalism, and if he’s on your ass already you don’t need to give him more reasons.”

“I’ll show him factionalism.” He yawned, laying his head on her shoulder.

“Is that what you’ll call this, then?” she teased. “Not a couple, a faction?”

“I like _faction_.”

“You know what they say about love and war.” Her eyes were closed but a faint smile had crossed her face. “I like our faction. As factions go.”

Another long silence followed, during which Severus moved closer and closer to sleep before blurting out, “There’s a place near my house that has good martinis. If we live through this, I’d—I could, you know. Buy you a...”

Without opening her eyes, she gave his hair an affectionate tug. “Dry, Tanqueray, extra olives?”

“I could take or leave the olives.”

“It’s a date. Thank you for saying all of that, by the way.”

“What?”

“I like knowing about you. And I know you’re not a big talker. I know it’s not easy.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“Spy. I think He suspects me.”

“If He did you’d be dead.”

“That might be better. I’m so—fucking—tired.”

She raised her head to look at him. He broke the eye contact almost as soon as it was made. “Are you going to kill yourself?”

“Direct.”

“There’s no point talking around it. Are you? Are you planning anything?”

“Alright, Doctor. No. There’s too much I need to do.”

She nodded. “That’s alright, then. I mean—no, it’s not, but it’s… not an immediate danger. If you start planning, will you tell me?”

He sighed.

“Please? I want you alive.” Her hand tightened on his, and he leaned against her, closing his eyes against the soft skin of her neck. She began to play with his hair with her other hand, running her fingers through it, loosely twisting and unwinding. So much gray, even since their first meeting less than three years ago. Strands had become streaks. “Maybe that’s selfish, but it’s true. When this is over? If we both survive? Let’s stay together.”

“I can’t think about when it’s over. If it’s ever over.”

“It will be. We might not see it, but it will. Everything ends eventually.”

Between the alcohol and the soothing way she was touching his hair, he felt suddenly very warm and sleepy, and in spite of himself he moved closer to her. _If it’s ever over,_ he thought, and sighed softly. _If we both survive._ He felt her lips on his scalp and trembled, and she rocked him, as though he were a child. His mother had never rocked him, only poured peroxide over his wounds and told him not to anger the man next time. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. Come to bed.” Rising to his feet, he followed her upstairs, head down. They lay next to each other and he didn’t resist when she slipped a hand down the front of his sweats, stroking and squeezing until he was stiff in her hand. He rolled onto her and pushed, and they were nose to nose and brow to brow, CJ’s hands on his lean, scarred back under his shirt.

“Severus,” she sighed after a few minutes, and his name in her mouth sounded like wind. “I want you.” Her fingers tangled his hair and he found her tongue with his, squeezed the thigh he’d drawn up against his abdomen.

“I want you,” he echoed. “Rina, I—“

“You have me.”

“You have me. All of me, all of—you have—oh, I’m—“ Back arching, toes curling, he went rigid on top of her, then slumped down. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Oh, Rina—it’s only you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Shh, Rus.”

“Only you, Carina,” he repeated, hearing how slurred his voice was. “You’re the only one I... my only...”

“Shh.”

Her fingers drew lazy ellipses across his back and he settled onto her, relaxing against her body. Not since taking veritaserum at his interrogation the first time Voldemort fell had he felt such a strong urge to confess. _You’re drunk, Severus_ , he snapped at himself, then, _I love you I love you I love you_ , and he was asleep.


	20. 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's pretty slow, sorry! mostly just had to move the plot along to get to the next point. things will get spicy again soon

That winter was a brutally cold one, and by the end of the school holidays Severus had taken to keeping small jars of flame in his pockets and under his desk to keep his hands and feet from going numb. His stolen moments with CJ seemed even warmer and more precious in comparison. When she caught flu as the weather turned wetter for spring, he moved into the manor part-time under the premise of assisting with her potions work.

“Every year I get the damn vaccine,” she complained, voice muffled by congestion, “and every year I get sick anyway. Decant that, will you?”

“Go lie down,” he told her, pouring the contents of a small beaker into a larger one and swirling it lazily. “I can take care of the rest of this.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled at her unmasked relief. “Yes.”

“Bless you, I’m exhausted.”

When the door closed behind her, he examined the substance for which they were preparing an antidote. It was an almost translucent caramel color, hot to the touch even through its sealed vial and syrupy in texture, and he didn’t recognize it. It was unusual for him not to recognize a poison—due not only to his studies, but to the impressive variety of substances that students had managed to ingest over the years. He made a mental note to ask CJ about it later.

The faint tone of the bell startled him, and a series of knocks followed, hesitant at first and then louder. Standing, he approached the door and called, “Who is this?”

“Is the Lady Carina here?” came a male voice with a Slavic accent.

Severus opened the door and stared out at a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who looked even more confused than he felt. “Who are you?”

“A... An acquaintance of hers. From New York.” He extended his arms, around one of which was wrapped a white snake. “Is she here? If she’s here, tell her... Tell her someone’s brought Svetlana.”

Severus raised an eyebrow but relayed the message to the woman upstairs. She gasped in delight, which triggered a coughing fit, and scrambled out of bed, wincing and wiping sweat off her eyelids and all but falling down the stairs. “Dima! Mitya! Oh my God!” she cried, and collapsed into the man’s muscular arms. “Mitya, Mityushka, I missed you so, so bad—how _are_ you? How’d you find me? Oh, Dmitriy, this isn’t safe—but you’re here—oh my God!”

He was hugging her so tightly Severus worried for her spinal health. ”CJ?” he asked warily. “You… know him?”

Leaning heavily on the man, snake cradled in her arms, she nodded. When her eyes rolled back and her knees buckled, the snake clung to one of her arms, and the other man caught her.

“Dmitriy Stelachenko,” he offered, extending the hand that wasn’t supporting the woman. The fact that he could hold her upright with only one hand made Severus’s temper rise.

“Let’s get her to bed.”

She woke within a few seconds, slumping against Dmitriy and cradling the snake to her breast. “Rus? This is Dima. My friend, my best friend, from Durm—“ Gasping for breath, she leaned heavily on the stranger. “Durmstrang. Dima’s—he’s—we met in school. My—“ And she collapsed sideways again.

“Are you…”

“Are you?” Severus snapped.

The man’s young brow crinkled. “Am I…?”

Anger saturated his blood and he seized the woman, supporting her himself. The pure white snake hissed at him, but he ignored it. “You’re her… You’re not involved with her?”

The man laughed out loud, spiking his anger, then, “You’re her boyfriend! I’m taken,” he said, and diffused it. “And gay.”

“Oh.”

“Let me help. Is she okay? You’re the man she—”

“Shh! Never mind that. She’s got flu.”

“She always catch flu,” he commented, hoisting her up as her eyes fluttered back open.

Severus wanted to slap him. She’d just said that. How dare he know her so well? “I know.”

“I’m okay, girls,” CJ mumbled, and Severus felt a hot flash of smugness when she snuggled into his shoulder rather than her old friend’s. Her face was burning. “Little sick, but fine.”

He eased her into the bed, heard a few sibilant syllables which the snake returned. She curled into the pillow, one hand cradling the serpent’s head.

“That’s Svetlana,” Dmitriy explained. “Her snake.”

“I got that far.”

“You are...?“

“Severus Snape.”

“Her boyfriend?”

He bristled, but didn’t argue. “You’re her—“

“Friend.” Dmitriy raised both hands in mock defeat, grinning. “I told you.”

“How did you get here? How did you get this address?”

“CJ told me.”

“Sorry,” she interjected sleepily. “I was going to warn you, but… Sit with me.” She let out a soft hum of appreciation when he sat down, and rested her head on one of his thighs. The snake widened her jaws threateningly, raising her head to Severus’s eye level, when he put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Sveta!” CJ admonished, before hissing something that made the snake coil back and relax, though without taking her eyes off of the man. “Sorry. _Somebody_ gets jealous. You have that in common. She’s not venomous, don’t worry. Dima! I didn’t know you were coming, I thought you were, I don’t know, sending a letter or…”

“I’m flying home tonight. Ukraine, I mean, not New York. My sister’s pregnant and there was a layover here, so… Is okay? I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s fine. Right, Severus? It’s fine.”

“Fine. How did you get this address?”

“Just me. She said was very secret.” He raised a finger to his lips and grinned.

“Well, that’s something.”

“We can trust Dima,” she yawned.

“Right. Right.” Jaw set, he sized the man up; physically he was much more imposing, close to his own height but more muscular, moving with the confident grace of someone comfortable in his own skin in a way that Severus had never been. Younger. Better-looking.

“Sorry if we… Get off on the wrong leg.”

“Foot, Dima.”

“Whatever.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “I didn’t…”

“New start?” He extended a hand. This time, he shook.

The three of them talked for a while, Dmitriy standing (“Is okay, I sit all day on plane,”) and Severus and CJ in the bed. There was something very intimate in the way she had her head in his lap, drawing spirals and loops on the fabric of his trousers with one fingernail. If they had been alone and she had not been sick, he would have wanted to take her then and there; as it was, the vulnerability was endearing, and he found himself tracing a curve on her cheek where he’d brushed away a sweaty strand of hair. When he saw Dmitriy smiling, his eyes on the interaction, he froze, ready to snap if the man mentioned it, but he didn’t.

“You look good together.”

“I always look good,” corrected CJ before lapsing into an ironically-timed bout of coughing.

“I should go back to the airport, my flight’s soon. I just wanted to see you.”

“I’m glad you came. You look well. Tell Eliot I miss him.”

“I will.” He bent to kiss her cheek and Severus felt another white-hot burst of rage when she returned it. _Easy. They’re just friends. He’s not a threat_. “It was good to meeting you.” With a very white-toothed smile, he raised one hand and descended the stairs.

“You’re close,” he said flatly. His hand had contracted hard on the woman’s shoulder when they had exchanged kisses, there was no way she hadn’t noticed.

“We are. But not in that way. I told you, I don’t normally go for men, and Dima’s taken and not by a woman. Besides, I like you. What’s wrong?”

“I… It’s nothing.”

“Remember how you were going to work on the talking-about-feelings thing?”

“It’ll sound like I want to wear your skin.” He cursed himself at the phrasing, but she laughed so hard she started coughing again.

“You don’t want to share me?”

That sounded better than _I don’t want anyone else ever to touch you and I don’t want ever to stop touching you_ , so he nodded. “I’m sorry. I fucked that up, didn’t I? You’re friends, and—“

“You started rough, but it ended fine. I’m an affectionate person, you’re going to have to get used to sharing me. It doesn’t mean I l—care about you less.”

She had almost said _that_ , and the anxiety and jealousy and anger of the past few hours was forgotten in a haze of heart-pounding shock. “What did you say?” he breathed.

“Just because I care about other people doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

“Oh. I thought you started to… Never mind.” He flushed. He shouldn’t have pressed the point. “I thought you were going to say something else.”

“Did you want me to say something else?”

Her fever-bright eyes had flicked up to his face, and he felt the presence of her mind graze his and instinctively occluded. “It’s nothing.”

“Suit yourself. How’s the antivenin going?”

“Antive—CJ, is this… under His orders?”

“Call it a side project.”

“For… His snake?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. Her voice was getting slurred as she started to drift off. “Accidents happen.”

“I can’t—you’re directly contradicting His—if you go ahead with—“

“Shh, Rus, you worry too much, it’s making my head hurt.” She snuggled closer into his lap. “It’ll be fine.”

“He wouldn’t—“

“There’s nothing He wouldn’t do. Lie down. I’m cold.”

Protesting feebly but trailing off, he lay down next to her and felt his heart skitter when she turned her face against his chest, hand resting on his abdomen. Her legs tangled with his, and he held her tightly, hearing her labored breathing and inhaling the scent of her hair. He was almost asleep when someone was pounding on the door to her quarters.

“My Lady? My Lady? Please open up, it’s an emergen—“

“Fuck,” Severus hissed, and rolled off the bed, flattening himself against one wall as CJ scrambled to her feet. She was trembling even wrapped in her fur-trimmed dressing-gown.

“Narcissa?” She asked hoarsely, then opened the door. “What’s going—“

“Draco. It’s gone wrong again, please go see to him—he’s getting desperate, he’s—“

“Slow down. What happened? Is anyone dead?”

“Another student’s been poisoned, they say he’ll be alright, but a teacher gave him—“

“I _told_ him no more middlemen,” she moaned. “Let me get dressed, I’ll head over.”

Narcissa nodded, eyes wide and panicked, and CJ closed the door. “Come with me.” She said something about _cover_ and _let me in_ that he missed, since she had also stripped. It was only when she had squirmed into a sweater and tight pair of jeans that he came back to reality.

“Yes,” he agreed, hoping he hadn’t agreed to anything too outlandish. She offered him her arm, and they disapparated. Apparating sick was never pleasant. When they rematerialized outside the school grounds her knees gave out and she almost collapsed against him. It was snowing. He took off his own cloak and wrapped her in it, and she clung gratefully to the fabric, leaning against him for support. It was too slow with her, and a poisoned student—he prayed it wasn’t Potter, though knowing the little dunderhead it like as not was. He sat her down by one of the fires when they were inside. “Wait here. I’m going to the infirmary, I’ll send Draco to you if I see him and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. He didn’t like the way she was shaking.

“On second thought—come on. A little medical care would do you good. But hurry.”

He half-dragged, half-escorted her to the hospital wing, where she collapsed gratefully into an empty cot, eyes fluttering immediately closed. “Draco?” she asked of the empty air, as though like a house-elf his name would summon him.

“I’ll get Draco. Stay here.” He turned and paced the length of the room to a small crowd around a bed. It was not Potter, but his friend, the Weasley boy. Cursing the incompetence of adolescents, he had to admit that it was hardly a surprise. Weasley would be easy to poison. The kid never stopped bloody eating. “What happened?”

Slughorn paled. “Oh, Severus, thank Merlin you’re here. I was giving Weatherby an antidote to a love potion, and we were going to have a toast, but… unfortunately…”

If all this was because that bloated idiot had been too lazy to properly wash a glass that had contained something poisonous, he would smack him. “Yes, quite _unfortunate._ Well? What’s he been given!”

“Harry here had the presence of mind to use a bezoar,” the man blundered on. What, Severus wondered, was the point of a potions master who panicked at seeing someone poisoned. “If he hadn’t, well—“

“ _He_ thought of that? All on his own, did he?”

“I imagine so, but—what’s this about?”

“Well, if he’s being treated there’s nothing I can do,” he sighed. “Pomfrey? When you have a moment—my colleague’s down with flu.”

“Of course, of—colleague?” She paused mid-step. “From…”

“I do have a personal life, thank you,” he snapped. Slughorn was rubbernecking over at CJ, who had stumbled over and was looking with interest at the bottle of mead.

“Hi, Professor. Is that poisoned?”

“Yes,” Severus snapped.

“Damn.”

“And you shouldn’t drink when you’re ill.”

“Alcohol is antibacterial.”

“And the flu is a virus, and that’s not how biology works anyway. If you’re all alright here, I need a word with Dumbledore.”

She nodded. A bezoar, from Potter? he wondered as he strode out of the hospital wing and down one of the castle’s many halls. _He_ would’ve thought of that, but that idiotic—

He collided abruptly with the youngest Malfoy, who looked nearly as pitiful as his cousin. Severus wanted to hit him. “You. Infirmary. _Now._ We’ll discuss this later.”

“Listen, sir, I—“

“ _You_ listen. Our Lady gave you _specific_ _instructions_ to _not use middlemen_ and you—do you _want_ to die? Now _get to the hospital wing_ and I’ll try to salvage this—this—clusterfuck!”

Looking stricken, the boy opened his mouth to protest, but his head of house was already turning a corner towards the headmaster’s office. The sensation in Draco’s stomach was like lead and he dragged his feet towards the hospital wing, unsure of what was waiting for him but aware that it couldn’t be good. He’d sent a patronus to his mother as soon as he’d heard what had happened, but… She couldn’t have come, that would be so—so suspicious, and—

Relief, then confusion, joined the dread when he saw CJ sitting on one of the hospital cots, a glass in her hand. “I didn’t know you were—“

“They think I’m Katrina Baryshnikov,” she hissed, “and I want to keep it that way.” Then, louder, “You must be Draco.”

“I—er—yes? It’s… nice to meet you?” He sat down next to her. “Is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine. Draco, what did you _do_? I told you to give it to him in person!”

“Filch—the caretaker—confiscated it. I was going to, but… What do I do now?” There was a note of hysteria creeping into his tone.

“I’ll look at the cabinets. You keep your head down.”

“Keep my—I can’t _keep my head down_ , I’m—“ his voice cracked. “What do I do?”

“We’ll figure something out. Get out of here, you’re being suspicious.” Biting his lip, he nodded, and turned to leave. “And Draco? No more stupid mistakes.”


	21. 21

Legs shaking slightly, Severus exited the shower and collapsed into a chair. For the first time he allowed himself to wonder what would have happened had he not been within hearing range of the ghost as she screamed and screamed, gliding through a door with shrieks of _murder!_ The thought made him shudder, and he poured himself a glass of firewhiskey but did not drink it, only stared into its amber depths. Then, despite his exhaustion, he stood again, dressed, and returned the contents of the glass back to the bottle. He was not only the boy’s head of house, he had taken a vow to protect him. If Draco was in the hospital, Severus should be there too. Wrapping a cloak around his lean shoulders, he began to walk towards the castle boundaries. It was a long walk, and hilly, but it did not make his legs ache the way it had years ago. It was familiar now. As he approached the gates, he replayed the chaos of the day in his mind.

The ghost had been screaming, and that was hardly out of character for her—pity to be stuck for an eternity at twelve years old—but there was a note of genuine panic to her voice that made him open the door. The first thing he had noticed was the dizzying, coppery smell of blood, and his heart accelerated and he _ran_ towards the figures of two teenagers.

Potter seemed frozen with horror, standing in an inch of water, familiar green eyes wide.

“I didn’t… He… I…” He gestured helplessly at the body on the floor.

Draco lay on the floor. The blood was undoubtedly his, and there was a lot of it. His expensive clothes and the alabaster skin beneath them were in crimson tatters. Water on the floor from the overflowing sink diluted it as it gushed from two long, deep gashes, making it spread into a meters-wide pool. Shoving the Gryffindor out of the way, he dropped to his knees and began to knit the wounds as best he could, fingertips pressed against Draco’s throat. His pulse was thready. _At least_ , he thought grimly, _it’s there_. When the huge gashes across his chest and abdomen had ceased bleeding, he murmured, “Ennervate.”

Light gray-blue eyes began to roll back the very instant they opened, and he paused his ministrations to slap the boy, just hard enough to startle him back to consciousness. Fighting for breath, he splashed bright blood onto his face. Severus hauled him to his feet, pulling an arm around his own shoulders. Though he was conscious, his head fell weakly forwards, and he was shaking too badly to support his own weight.

“You. Stay.”

Potter nodded, eyes still wide.

As Severus half-carried his godson to the infirmary, his mind whirled through the scene. _It can’t be—but it was—but how could he have known? Where could he have learned about—_

He missed a step and nearly dropped his charge. No, it was impossible, he had gotten rid of the book ages ago. And yet…

 _Potter’s the best student I’ve had in years! Even gives you a run for your money!_ And _Harry here had the presence of mind to use a bezoar._ God, he’d been a fool! The boy had barely passed his last five years of the subject, would never have thought of a bezoar unless—and if he’d found the book, he would have read about the spell. He wouldn’t have expected anyone to use an unknown, undescribed spell on another person, though. Not even that reckless, obtuse…

Mentally cursing the boy, he shouldered through the door to the hospital wing. “Poppy! Poppy, Draco’s been cursed. He needs the portkey, _now._ ”

“Oh, my—yes, of course, here. What happened!?”

Seizing the pitcher, he had just enough time to snarl, “Potter,” before the room spun around them and they reappeared in a hospital lobby. Draco looked on the verge of fainting again. “Draco! _Draco_. Do you remember what spell he used?”

“S… Sect-or sest-something. Sectasiempre?”

“Not quite,” he replied grimly, handing the boy gratefully onto a stretcher that a harassed-looking healer brought to them.

“What happened?” the healer asked.

“Hit by a curse. I stopped the bleeding, but he’ll need dittany and blood-replenishing draught, and he might have a punctured lung—he’s been coughing blood. I’ll be back in a—“ but before he even finished speaking, he had whirled around and disapparated back to the outer confines of the Hogwarts grounds. With immense effort, he summoned a patronus, and thought, _Notify CJ and Narcissa that Draco’s in St. Mungo’s. He’ll be alright after a few days but he’s badly injured._ The silvery deer had given him a slow blink before disappearing into the orange evening light. Turning on his heel, the man all but sprinted back to the castle, back to the bathroom, and at least Potter was still there, though he could not have said whether that was more from shock than true deference or guilt. Undirected adrenaline was heating the anger that rose whenever he saw the boy, and it was in a voice he barely recognized as his own that he snarled, “So.”

The boy was an awful liar. He stammered out alibis and excuses, each more flimsy than the last, but there was only one place he could have learned the curse and _where the hell had he found it_!?

After the humiliatingly unsuccessful interrogation and a directive for Slughorn to mind the Slytherins in his absence, Severus hastened, mind whirring, back to the hospital.

CJ and Narcissa were already there, the former pale and the latter flushed with tears, grip tight on her unconscious son’s hand. The snake from how-many weeks ago was draped around her handler’s shoulders like a pashmina. It struck the man how young Draco was, for all his posturing and bravado. White and unmoving under the sheet, he looked small and fragile. The younger woman’s eyes met Severus’ with an emotion that made him have to look away, feeling his face warm.

“What happened?” croaked Narcissa.

“Potter attacked him.”

“How did Potter learn—“

“I don’t know,” he lied. “Has he woken up at all?”

“In and out,” CJ replied flatly. “Merlin. Lucky you found him as soon as... Severus, you’re still covered in blood. Tergeo.”

“I—thank you, my Lady.”

She shot him a little smile, eyes still dark with inscrutable emotion. “Of course.”

The eye contact intensified, heated, and broke when Severus coughed awkwardly and looked away under the premise of taking Draco’s pulse. ”He’ll recover.”

“But will he be the same?”

“He will scar.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Narcissa uttered a short, sharp sob. “I know I shouldn’t—as long as he’s alright—but he was such a beautiful little boy—“

“His face is fine, Cissa. He’ll be fine,” CJ soothed her aunt, and Severus stood a few feet away, acutely aware of yet again being on the outside of some intimate suffering. The three of them remained there until a healer’s assistant bustled in to inform them that only one visitor was permitted out of regular hours. “Do you want to stay with him?” she asked Narcissa, who nodded tearfully.

“Thank you. And—Severus—if you hadn’t—“

“It doesn’t matter. As long as he heals.”

She nodded slowly, without standing, and the man walked out of the _spell damage_ ward to wait in the hall. He’d give CJ a few hopeful seconds before leaving.

As he’d wished, she joined him, and the kiss she pressed to his thin mouth was better than he’d dared hope. “Can I stay with you?” she breathed. “I don’t want to be alone in the—with my parents and Wormtail—“

“As long as you’re not seen or heard by anyone but me.” Risky, perhaps, but he didn’t want to be without her any more than she seemed to. “Let me disillusion you.” He tapped his wand on her head, and she shivered as she and the snake blended into the hospital wall.

“Thanks. He _will_ be okay, right, Severus?”

“He’ll be fine. I brought him in soon enough.”

“So what happened?”

They flooed from the hospital to Hogsmeade, and he told her the story while they walked to the castle. She was a good audience even though he couldn’t see her face, gasping and asking questions and—best of all—sometimes seizing his hand and telling him how lucky it was that he was so smart and brave and decisive. It was fortunate, then, that when they reached his quarters he’d already been given the night off.


	22. 22

Though either had yet to say the word _love_ , their sex that night had been something more than the sum of its parts. They had clung to each other, CJ straddling his hips, kissing over and over with their chests and stomachs pressed together. She had gasped in his ear when she came, and he felt he would never forget the sound, let alone the feeling of her hot breath on his skin. When they fell asleep, it was drunk and in each others’ arms, her nose against his cheek, her hand on his abdomen, soft skin and wiry hair under her palm. He woke when she did, then, the warm weight of her hand suddenly absent. For a moment he was confused, dizzy. Then, standing, he pulled on a minimum of clothes and walked to the bathroom. Quiet as a ghost, he approached the locked door of his friends and almost smiled as he recognized the soft hum of his own muffliato spell.

He knocked. “Rina?” There was no answer. “Rina, I’m coming in.” With a light touch of his wand, he unlocked the door. He heard coughing, smelled alcohol and something cloying and medicinal. It was no surprise to see her curled up on the bathroom floor, one hand supporting her weight. He knelt next to her. She was panting raggedly, her breath hitching with sobs.

“Sorry. Not very sexy of me, is it?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” She retched quietly. “Sorry.” Wiping her mouth, she sat back. Her face was pale, wet with tears and sweat. “Bad dream. So I did what I do, you know. Got shitfaced and took a bunch of benzos.”

His grip tightened reflexively on her cold wrist. “That’s not a good combination.”  
“I know. Stupid.”

“Were you trying to…?”

She shrugged. “In the moment. Then I realized I was being an idiot. I’ll be fine.”

Without thinking, he said, his voice involuntarily harsh, “That was how my mother died, you know.”

Eyes soft, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“Not your fault. Your mother wasn’t your fault and neither was this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I stopped it, Rus. It doesn’t matter.” She leaned against his shoulder.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m tired.”

“What was… the dream? Please. If it makes you try to kill yourself, I want to know.”

For nearly a minute, she was silent, her head back against the marble wall, her eyes closed and face drawn. Then, she spoke, without affect. “My mother used to torture people and make me murder them. I didn’t eat or sleep until they were dead, and they all died in the end. So it was better if I did it quickly. For me and for them. She thought I just liked killing. She and her husband took it in shifts. They could go for days like that.”

He closed his eyes, put an arm around her. He had seen far too much death and torture, but to have been a child… For once he could find no words. “C…”

“You know the Longbottoms? I was supposed to do it without a wand, but I couldn’t. I’d just turned eleven. Obviously I couldn’t, but—it went on for almost a week. Constantly. I started hallucinating, I was so tired. They just kept giving me stimulants. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop it. They stopped reacting after… I think the fourth day. I didn’t really realize what I’d been doing until she was arrested. The aurors came. I told them everything and they were so. Fucking. Horrified.” She punctuated the last three words with a fist coming slowly down on her thigh, and when she continued her voice was shaking. “I got older. Realized it wasn’t normal. I don’t even know how many there were. I don’t remember the first. I don’t remember much from back then. Been in a lot of fucking therapy,” she added with a wry smile that quickly faded, “But the day before they came... I—had a cat. I don’t know why they’d let me keep it. This tiny fucking kitten I found outside when I was eight or nine. I carried him around in my pocket until he got too big. He followed me _everywhere_. He slept in bed with me every night. I was going to bring him to school. I _loved_ that little guy. His name was—“ Then her voice broke, _really_ broke, and she covered her face with her hands and fell silent for a few moments. “His name was Shadow. When I couldn’t kill them my mother set him on fire. Have you ever heard a cat in pain? They… scream. I don’t remember which one of us was screaming more. And then he stopped. And she just… went back to the Longbottoms like it was nothing. I know it’s sick, I know he was just a cat and there were humans, but he was—he was my only friend. And he was my responsibility. And he _trusted me_. I never felt like a person before him. Sometimes I still don’t.”

“Christ, Rina.”

“Why am I alive? I can’t justify… No matter what I do, I… I’ve done—I killed so many people and I didn’t even—didn’t even—“

He tightened the arm around her shoulders, drew her torso against his, and she shook, clinging to him like a buoy in a storm. The sounds her cat had made could not, he thought, have possibly compared in degree of pain to those she was quietly sobbing into his chest. “You were a child, Rina. You didn’t… What could you have…”

“Could’ve killed myself then. No idea how many people would still be alive if I wasn’t.”

“Don’t be stupid. Your mother would have gone after them anyway. If anything you made it quicker and less painful.”

“Should’ve died then. Haven’t done shit’s worthwhile since.”

“Rina...”

She laughed. “I’m okay. I’m fine! Get me a drink, Rus.”

“Not how you are now.”

She smiled, closed her eyes, and began to hum softly, a song faintly reminiscent to him—American, one his father had liked, Presley or the Doors. Her voice was soft, pitch excellent if a little throaty, and the fine graying hairs at the nape of his neck rose at her strained expression. His hand closed on her shoulder, shook her gently. She swayed easily with it and closed her eyes, teeth glinting blue-white in the moonlight.

“Stop that.” His heart had begun to pound with the wrongness of the scene. _You can’t be losing it_.

Finally she looked at him, and her weird manic grin widened. Tears streaked her face. “I’m so scared, Severus,” she breathed. “I’m so fucking scared.”

“It would be idiocy not to be.”

Her fingers laced between his. A corner of her plush upper lip, which he had kissed and bitten so many times, had flared into a snarl. He kissed it again and felt her twitch away.

“I’m _so scared_! Look.” She hiked the silk sheet up to show him the uneven, curved scar on her thigh. “This is from when I was bit by a shark. A mako. Did you know they’re supposed to be the smartest shark out there, and the fastest? I wasn’t scared then. I felt her teeth go into my skin, I saw the blood, and all I thought was: what a badass way to die.” Her laugh was high and unnatural, and she all but slapped a hand over her mouth. Eyes closing, she shuddered, and Severus saw tears spill over her fingers. “I punched her in the gills. That’s what you’re supposed to do, I thought. And she let go and swam away. I found out later her teeth were less than an inch from artery. And you know what? I could never do a Patronus before then, and after that? It was always a shark. I’m so fucked up, Severus. Adrenaline is the only thing that makes me feel normal.“ Yet another time, she laughed, and closing her eyes, began to sway.

Severus shook her again. “Please, Rina.”

“I don’t know. Please, just get me a drink.”

He poured her a glass of wine and she splashed it over the skin of her breasts as she drank, liquid flashing bright in the darkness. Slowly, almost lewdly, in a movement that in any other context would have sent a lightning bolt to the man’s groin, she dragged a fingertip across the wet skin and sucked it clean. Her full lower lip trembled, and she bowed her head just before a soft, breathy sound entirely unlike her met his ears. “I’ve never been scared to die before. I’ve been afraid of the process of dying, of suffering, but not of death itself. Why now?”

“You’re not going to die.” As they came, he knew how hollow the words sounded, and couldn’t blame her for laughing. She masked a sob in a slow sip of wine. “I won’t let… They’ll have to go through me.” And, strangely, he meant it.

“So? They will.”

“Don’t talk about this. What good does it—”

“‘Don’t talk about this.’ That’s done you lots of good.”

“It‘s kept me alive.”

“Because you haven’t had anyone _to_ talk to so far.” She wiped her eyes slowly, and the silence between them seemed to swell with each passing second. “I’m not like you, Rus. I haven’t had so few friends since before I got my fucking period. I need to talk or I get crazy. Like this. I feel like I’ll explode.”

“Talk, then. Just not this... This. You act like He’s given you a deadline.”

“ _Dead_ line,” she laughed, and finished the wine, and poured another glass. “I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were.”

“You thought it. It’s scaring you, seeing me like this.”

“For your sake.”

“Why? I’ve done this before. My brain hates me, but it won’t let me die, so it makes me like this for self preservation, that’s old news.”

“You’re reminding me of my parents.” She looked up, chin rising in that ever so pureblood way of signaling insult, and he hastily elaborated, “My mother got like this. Stuck in the past. And she drank when that happened, too, but she got... mean. And my father, well. Too depressed to go to work one week, applying to a dozen jobs a day the next. Neither of them were in our situation, obviously, but they both ended up dead young.”

“Severus?” The offense had melted from her face.

“Mm?”

“How old are you?”

He laughed. “Thirty-six. And you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“At least you’ll be in good company if you die now.”

“Me and Cobain and Hendrix and... who else?” She smiled, and settled her body against his. He marveled at how well they fit together, onelean shoulder perfect under his arm and the other equally so against the crook of his elbow, her cheek and his collar like jigsaw pieces made for each other’s negative space.

“Joplin, Morrison.”

“How could I forget Morrison? I love the Doors. When’s your birthday?”

“January ninth. Yours?”

“Funny, I don’t usually get on with capricorns. My father’s one, too.” It was strange to consider the Dark Lord having something so mundane as a zodiac sign. “I’m a scorpio. November eighteenth. It’s funny how little we know about each other, all considered. What’s your favorite color?” Her hand had found his thigh under the blanket, and fingertip absently traced skin. “And black doesn’t count.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Pick now, then.”

“I don’t know. Green?”

“Because of Slytherin?”

“No.”

“It’s mine too.”

“I thought you’d say blue. You know, ocean.”

“Blue’s a close second. And pink. But I’ve never lived anywhere with a lot of green, and I remember the first time I saw sun through leaves. And I was Sally Bowles in an amateur Cabaret in college—God, it was a disaster—and she has that one line about painting her nails green because she does whatever she wants, and that always got me.”

“Cabaret’s the one with Nazi strippers, right?”

“Nazis and strippers. The strippers aren’t Nazis, and vice versa. You might like it. The first act is all funny and sexy and light, and then it gets so dark so fast it blows your mind. I saw it with Dima when we were at Durmstrang and... I won’t spoil it. But I’ll add it to my list of things I’d do with you if...”

“You have a list?”

“In my head. I’m going to drag you to a New York brunch. There’s a place in Soho that I love. Bloody Marys, and brioche French toast, and bacon and eggs, and… and…”

He kissed her as she trailed off, and she shifted slightly against his side and arm. “I could be persuaded.”

“What else do you want to know about me?”

Her voice was getting soft and sleepy, and the rush of protectiveness he felt for her surprised him as much as did the simultaneous instinctive tightening of his arm around her, drawing her closer. “What do you do besides this, and work, and drink?”

“I used to play piano. Now I mostly socialize. Concerts, meals out, that sort of thing.”

“Why’d you quit piano?”

“Have you ever tried getting one of those into a three-fifty square foot studio?”

“Fair. Were you any good?”

“I was okay. Not great. But I did that and sang in a band at Strang, with Dima and a few others, and we made it to the semis in a muggle battle of the bands when I was... Fifteen? Sixteen? For a Led Zeppelin cover.”

“Which song?”

“You like Zeppelin?”

“Are you surprised?”

“A little. Since I’ve Been Loving You.”

“I had Mothership as a kid.”

“Yeah?” She yawned, wound her wine free arm around his waist, squeezed gently. “What about you? What was your life like, before... this?”

“Well, I fucking hate teaching.”

“I think you’d be good at it. But as a college professor, not with teens.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t good at it. But it’s time consuming. Not much time for... anything else, really, especially as I live there most of the year. I read a lot. That’s about it.”

“I’ll have to socialize you, then.” Her head was heavy on his chest; she was fading fast.

“Very funny.” He took the glass from her unprotesting hand and set it on a table.

There were tears in her eyes again. “I’m sorry for being so... crazy. I’m just so worried about Draco. He’s not going to do it. He can’t do it.”

“I know.”

“He’s not a killer.”

“I know. Don’t worry.” He kissed her hair. “It’s going to be alright. I have a plan.”

“If you kill Dumbledore instead of him, you’ll just both be up shit creek with my father. Don’t get yourself in trouble, Rus. I’m really starting to… feel some kind of way about you.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Do you feel some kind of way about me?”

“Shh.”

“D’you feel…?”

When he was certain that she was unconscious, her breathing slow and even and her body deadweight against his, he lay down and whispered into her hair, “Of course I do, idiot.”


	23. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the wait for this one! I got distracted writing the ending and... now we have the final version of the last couple chapters and a whole lot of barely-written nonsense between now and then. Hopefully long update makes up for it.

“They dropped the charges,” Narcissa had said as she kept pace with her husband. It was a few months after the first war; the Death Eaters they’d caught had been found guilty, or not, and the young couple had just begun to relax when they received the summons.

_Esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,_

_You are wanted at the auror department by ten o’clock this morning. Priority: urgent._

“You said you were Imperiused. They can’t bring you back to court, can they?”

“You know what the aurors have been like. The law doesn’t apply to them anymore. You saw what happened to Black and he was only tangentially involved with Him.” Lucius’s voice was low and strained. “Not even a show trial. Just straight to a life sentence.”

“But Black’s not—you’ve worked for the Ministry for years, everyone in your family has. You have connections. They can’t treat you like some common—“

He shushed her, drawing up to his full stature as he entered the office. Even at twenty-seven, married for two and a half years and a father for barely over year less, he cut an intimidating figure, tall and athletic in perfectly tailored navy robes, blonde hair impeccably groomed around his chiseled, aristocratic face. His wife was no less impressive. She had only been twenty-five when her son was born, and looked exactly as she had before she’d become pregnant. Willowy, graceful, alabaster skin and light golden hair. No matter how she tried to hide it, though, her blue eyes were wide with fear.

Of course it had to be Alastor Moody manning the desk, and he glared at them with unrestrained distrust before looking over his shoulder and barking, “Robards! Malfoys.”

Another auror, much milder in expression, emerged from a door towards the back of the waiting room and approached them. He shook Lucius’s hand and smiled. “Please, come in—coffee? Tea? I hope I haven’t disturbed your morning, only, there have been certain… developments… in the case of your sister-in-law, a Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange.” Narcissa drew a sharp breath and her husband’s hand tightened on hers like a vice.

“Are there further charges?”

“No. It’s… more of a civil matter. Come into my office and have a seat, I’ll explain.”

Warily, accepting two mugs of tea, they followed. Lucius sat. His wife did not. “What’s going on with Bellatrix, then? Has there been a problem at Azkaban?”

“No, not at Azkaban. It’s complicated. You see…” Neither of them had ever seen an auror look so uncomfortable. “Were you aware that she had purchased a manor in Albania?”

They looked at each other in confusion and shook their heads.

“Neither were we until this week. We raided it and, well… You have a niece.”

“That’s not possible,” interrupted Narcissa. “She never mentioned… I never heard of—“

“Neither had anyone else. The girl is currently at St. Mungo’s, but her _physical_ injuries have been healed, and there’s… She’s traumatized, she’s disturbed, but she’s not damaged enough mentally to stay there long term.”

“So you want us to pay for her to stay somewhere else,” Lucius intuited. He was already taking out a Gringotts checkbook, looking immensely relieved. “I’d be—“

“Lucius, she’s family,” the woman breathed. “We can’t just send her off to some—“

“And if she hurts Draco?” He turned back to Robards. “How old is she?”

“Eleven. She doesn’t know when her birthday is except that it’s sometime in the second week of November. Her name is Carina Juno. She denies having a surname.”

“Well, it’d be Lestrange, wouldn’t—“

“According to her and several Death Eaters, her father is he-who-must-not-be-named himself.”

“No.” Lucius’s eyes were wide with shock and something only his wife could pin as interest. Of course she would be a connection, of course she would be powerful, however _traumatized_ or _disturbed._ So typical of him—a child, a blood relative, in need of their protection, and all that mattered was her lineage.

With a rare flash of anger towards her husband, Narcissa looked at the auror. “You want us to take her in.”

“Ideally.”

“Can we meet her first?”

“Of course.” He escorted them to St. Mungo’s hospital, explaining quietly as they walked that she’d been brought in with extensive cruciatus-induced nerve damage, that she’d told him things the aurors hadn’t even suspected, that she flinched and hissed threats at sudden movements but hardly reacted to pain. “She’s not… bad,” he sighed, the trio standing outside a private room in the children’s ward. “She’s like a cornered animal. If she lashes out, it’s because she’s scared.”

Narcissa nodded and moved to open the door, but Lucius cut in front of her. “Behind me,” he said quietly. “In case…”

The lights were off. “Lu, maybe she’s asleep. Maybe we should—“

“Who are you.” The voice was unmistakably female, unmistakably young, but the flatness and command in it chilled them both.

“Carina?”

“I asked who you are.”

“My name’s Narcissa Malfoy. Can I turn on the lights?”

“I’d rather you not. Who’s he?” She spoke very fast, spitting the words.

“My husband, Lucius. We’re your aunt and uncle, love.”

“Love is bullshit.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, then, “Can we turn on the lights? Just a little. So we can see you.”

“If you must.”

Before either of them could move, though, low flames erupted along the walls, throwing ersatz orange light around the small room. There was a bed on one side, a sink, toilet, and shower on the other. Against the far wall, back pressed flat against cement and hands at her sides, tense as if she were prepared to fight, stood the girl.

She did not look malnourished—on the contrary, in the loose shorts and sleeveless shirt the hospital provided for long-term patients they could see the shadows of her calf and arm muscles—but she was easily less than ten percent body fat. Neither knew what Tom Riddle had looked like when he had stared Dumbledore down the day they met in that London orphanage, but if they had, the only difference would have been her hair, dark and flashing red in the firelight, tumbling in loose, unkempt waves around her wild eyes and nearly to her narrow hips.

“Thank you. Hi, Carina.” Narcissa took a step closer and the girl stiffened. Her hands were shaking.

“Are you going to take me out of here. I don’t want to leave.”

“Why not?”

For an instant, the furious, impenetrable resolve broke and she looked her age for a moment. Her lip might even have quivered. When she spoke, though, it was with the same disciplined coldness as before. “My parents can’t find me here. If we’re related they know where you are. They’ll think I’m with you and they’ll kill me for betraying them.”

“Carina, your mother’s in prison. Your father’s dead. They’re not going to find you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Prove it.”

“Honey…”

Lucius stepped forward, and just as the girl had begun to relax, she went rigid again, and suddenly there was terror in her eyes. “If you touch me I’ll cut your fucking throat. I’m not taking my clothes off. I don’t have to do that anymore. If you touch me I’ll kill you.”

“I’m not going to—Merlin,” he breathed. “I’m not going to… do that to you. Neither of us are going to hurt you, alright?”

“Why should I believe you.” She had started to shiver visibly, and her eyes were very bright. When she dug the nails of one hand into the back of her left forearm and raked them up from wrist to elbow, her blood looked black in the dim light.

As their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, they could see more scratches. “We have a son. We’ve never hurt him. Carina, you’re safe, it’s over. Come with us.”

Taking a few small, wary steps forward, she hissed, “Either of you try anything and you’re dead.”

“We’re not going to… try anything.” Narcissa extended a hand and the girl recoiled, but she did not withdraw it. “It’s alright. You must be hungry. What do you like to eat? We can get you anything you want.”

There was a long silence, their eyes locked, Carina’s slim shoulders rising and falling very fast. “In Albania. There was a werewolf named Fenrir. He gave me meat once.”

Trying not to let the revulsion show on her face, she replied, “Okay. What else?” Her answer was a blank stare. “Is there anything else you like to eat?”

“Mother gave me nutrient potions. She says real food makes you fat and slow, and I’m supposed to be…”

“That’s not true. Come on. Take my hand. You can try some different things, see what you like, okay?”

“If this is a trap…”

“I swear it’s not.” Very slowly, the girl stepped forward and brushed against the offered hand, then pulled away. “It’s okay, honey. Take your time.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I just know you’ve been through a lot. It’s over. I promise.” They clasped hands, and the girl cautiously approached, deliberately keeping Narcissa between herself and Lucius, eyes darting around the room. The fire disappeared. When they exited into the main ward, she pressed involuntarily close to her aunt, squinting in the light and raising a hand to cover her eyes.

Robards greeted them outside. “Remember me, Carina?”

It was incredible how fast the girl relaxed. Her shoulders dropped, her posture softened, and she let out a sharp breath that neither Malfoy had noticed she was holding. “Are they with you?” Her voice was softer, her tone less constricted.

“Yes. They’re going to take care of you.”

“And if they don’t… If they’re like my parents…”

“Then I’ll get you away from there, too. But they won’t be. No one’s like your parents except your parents.”

She stood still for a moment, staring into his eyes despite the bright daylight making hers water, then nodded slowly.

“Why does she trust you?” Lucius asked in an undertone.

“Kid’s a brilliant legilimens. Wouldn’t talk until I let her in, and then she wouldn’t shut up.”

Narcissa turned towards the girl. “If that would make you feel safer…”

The intrusion of her consciousness was a gust of wind, in and out in moments but leaving the woman light-headed as though the contents of her entire brain had been upturned. Slowly, the girl nodded. “I want different clothes.”

“Perfectly doable.”

“And books.”

“We have plenty.”

They left the auror outside the hospital and crossed to Diagon Alley, where they bought her a few sets of robes and some more casual wear. A proper wardrobe could wait; the crowd was making her tense and jumpy. Her knuckles had gone white on Narcissa’s hand, and more than that, a feeling like static was shooting up and down the woman’s arm. She was very close to accidental magic, and were the deliberate— _deliberate! at her age!_ —fire in the hospital any indication, that was not something anyone would want to see. “Have you apparated before?”

“Twice.”

“Good.”

The three reappeared in the courtyard of the manor, and their niece’s eyes went round. “This is where you live. And your son.”

“And you too, now. Do you like it?”

She nodded slowly.

“Come in. Lucius, I’m going to check on Draco—make sure she gets something to eat, and then have one of the house-elves show her around.” When the woman disappeared up a flight of stairs, Carina tensed again and took a step backward, away from the man.

“I told you I’m not going to hurt you,” he sighed. He was nowhere near as good at comfort as was Narcissa. “Dobby!”

The house-elf materialized with a pop that made sparks flash for an instant in the girl’s palms. “Yes, Master, how can I serve—who is this, sir?”

“Carina. Our niece. She lives here now.”

“Hello, young mistress Carina, it’s an honor to—“

“Shut up and get her something to eat.”

“Of course, what would young mistress—“

“Anything, just be quick about it.”

With a deep bow, the elf disappeared, then returned moments later with a plate of sandwiches, which he set on the coffee table. “There is roast beef, mistress, and cheese, and—“

“Thank you, that’ll be all,” Lucius snapped, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Carina backed slowly toward the table, watching the man unblinkingly, then darted with surprising agility to the other side and began to devour one of the sandwiches.

“You don’t have to rush, you know,” the man sighed, settling into a leather armchair and looking back at her. “No one’s going to… take it away, or anything.”

Mouth full, she raised one eyebrow with an expression of comical skepticism, but did slow down. “Want anything to drink?”

“Vodka?” she asked hopefully, and glared at him when he laughed aloud.

“Uh, no. Nice try.”

“They gave it to me in Albania.”

“Your parents wouldn’t let you eat, but they gave you vodka?”

“Not my parents. My mother’s husband. Before he—“ A flush rose to her pale cheeks, and she looked away, lowering her half-finished second sandwich to the plate.

Raising the fingertips of one hand to his right temple, he closed his eyes and sighed. “ _Only_ today. Since it’s your first day here.” Her eyes lit up. “This will _not_ be a normal thing. Do _not_ tell your aunt or I’ll be in big trouble. Understood?” She nodded eagerly. “Dobby? Two vodkas.”

The girl downed hers with all the practiced grace of a tsar, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, sat down on the floor, and resumed her sandwich. It was barely seconds after Dobby removed the glasses that Narcissa returned, the small blond bundle of her son perched on one hip, and had her husband been a religious man he would have thanked God for the elf’s speed.

“How are you feeling, Carina?”

She gestured at the sandwich. “This is good.”

“I’m glad. This is our son, Draco.”

Although Narcissa didn’t consider it at the time, she would realize a few days later that the adoration in her eyes when she looked at the boy was entirely alien to the house’s newest resident. Her head tilted slightly to the left, dark eyes narrowing watchfully. “Why is he so small?”

“He’s a baby. Haven’t you—of course you haven’t.” She sat next to her husband on the loveseat. “Would you like to hold him?” Lucius shot her a warning look, and the girl looked apprehensive.

“He’s so small. What if I… break him?”

“You won’t. Come here, sit down.”

She obeyed.

“Here—like this.” Hands meeting the girl’s, she handed the boy over. He looked up at her with bright interest and smiled. The smile she returned was shaky and nervous, out of practice, but her aunt was internally punching the air with triumph.

“Hi!” he squealed. “Hi hi!”

“Hello, Draco,” she whispered, and looked up, eyes suddenly far away. Almost inaudibly, she murmured, “He reminds me of my cat.”

“You had a cat?”

Then her eyes snapped shut and she shuddered. “No.” She returned her attention to the boy, but his parents could see that she was shivering again. Her long hair did not cover the connection between her eyes and Draco’s, nor the tears that fell onto his sweater. He seized a handful of the hospital-issue flannel shirt and giggled, and she was suddenly stepping away from his parents, holding him close against her chest. Immediately they were on their feet. “He hasn’t done anything wrong,” she whispered, voice as emotionless as it had been at the hospital. “He can’t protect himself. He’s good. He’s all _good_. Don’t you dare let anyone hurt him or I’ll kill you.”

“We won’t. We won’t, Carina—no one’s going to hurt him.”  
She held the boy tighter. He was clearly unhurt, snuggling into the warm embrace of this new person whose legilimency he had not understood but whose ferocious protectiveness he, abstractly, had. With the hand not tight on her shirt, he seized a lock of her hair and pulled gently, laughing. “Better not.”

“Can I have him back now, though?” Narcissa reached out. The girl hesitated, but obeyed.

Draco refused to let go of her shirt, and whined in protest when his mother tried to unclench his fist. “No! Mumma no!”

The young woman grinned sheepishly. “He likes you.”

“I know.”

“Alright, you can keep holding him. Just… be careful.”

He settled down again when back in Carina’s arms, grip still tight on her shirt and one thumb in his mouth, watching her face in fascination as she slowly began to relax and settled back to the floor. “Cute, isn’t he,” grinned Lucius.

“Cute,” the girl repeated softly, and looked up. “Why is he blank?”

“What?”

“His arm. He…” Carefully shifting his weight so she could hold him one-handed, she extended her left forearm to reveal the faded Dark Mark tattooed on it. “Why doesn’t he have this? Everyone else I know does.”

The couple exchanged prolonged stares, and it was Lucius who finally answered. “Most people don’t. It’s a tattoo you get if you’re… in with your father.”

She stared at him. “But… I’ve never seen anyone without—“

Narcissa rolled up her sleeve, showing the girl the smooth white skin. “See? You get it if you work for Him.”

“I don’t work for Him.”

“I know, but since you’re His daughter, you… Of course He would’ve…”

“And you?”

Lucius sighed. “I used to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t.”

“How many people have you killed.” Her moods were clear in her voice, they were learning. Modulated meant calm. Flat meant tense.

The man blinked. “None.”

“That’s a lie. You have to, to work for him. At least one.”

He sighed. “Two.”

“That’s nothing,” she dismissed, and returned her attention to the boy in her arms.

Her behavior was still erratic through the spring and the summer. Her healing was not fast. She made strange remarks, she knew too little about some things and far too much about others. She vacillated from emotionally vacant to hysterical with fear or grief or rage or some indescribable mix of all. She did not like to be touched, or she craved it, or both, leaning into Narcissa’s arms and then jerking away.

Whatever connection there was between Carina—or CJ, as she soon decided she preferred to be called—and Draco, though, provided a stabilizing force for both. When he cried, she knew almost immediately what he wanted. When she screamed in her sleep, he would toddle into her quarters and call _Ceej, Ceej,_ until she picked him up, and his presence would calm her. Narcissa mothered them both, though Carina flinched away from her attention much of the time, gravitating as she grew calmer more towards Lucius’s unaffectionate demeanor.

Then her Hogwarts letter arrived. She looked nervously from one to the other, then said, “I want to go abroad,” in that tone that reminded them who her parents were and made it clear she would not back down. “I don’t want people to know who I am.”

“Are you sure?” her aunt asked.

“Durmstrang’s reputable,” replied Lucius. “I’ll call in a favor.”

She left for school straight-backed and silent, unsmiling, and Narcissa squeezed her husband’s hand. Draco was sniffling in her arms. The goodbye had been hard for him.

“I hope she’s alright there,” she murmured.

“She’s survived worse.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. How’s she going to make friends? Everyone’s going to be talking about quidditch, and celebrities, and—normal things, kid things. She doesn’t understand that.”

“She’ll be fine, Cissa.” He caressed her thumb with his own. “Remember how she was, what, seven months ago? Eight? At least she eats now. At least she doesn’t scream in her sleep anymore. Remember what—well, no, you wouldn’t, you were in the girls’ dorm. Severus used to have nightmares like that. Didn’t much endear him to the other first-years. But he turned out alright.”

“I didn’t know that. Why? What happened to him?”

The man grimaced. “What _didn’t_?”

“Have you talked to him? Since… you know. Halloween.”

“Tried to. He’s not gotten back to me.”

“We should have him over. Term at Hogwarts doesn’t start for another two days, and you know how… withdrawn he can be.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he wants to see anyone from, you know. The old crowd. He very nearly got life in Azkaban, and they kept him there for a week before his trial. I’d be surprised if he’d talk to anyone with our, ah, _connections_.”

“I didn’t know he was locked up.”

“They said he was a flight risk. No family, no friends.”

“We’re his friends.”

“Not the sort that he’d come to for help.” He kissed the woman’s hairline and she rested her head against his chest, breathing in the smell of his clean clothes and cologne. “You worry too much, my love.”


	24. 24

CJ spent the next week predictably irritable and hungover, snapping at the Death Eaters nearly as much as her parents, and when Draco returned to Hogwarts he was even moodier and more nervous than usual. For his part, Severus vented his stress and frustration in the form of a spike in criticism, poor grades, and detention, and the fact that CJ would call it sublimation only piled on the resentment. As summer drew nearer, and the deadline for Dumbledore’s murder approached with it, the air around the man felt perpetually electric with tension.

Then, for the first time in weeks, his Mark burned, and his stomach dropped. He detouredto Dumbledore’s office and found it empty. _Fuck_ , he thought, _fuck fuck fuck_ , and disapparated the instant he crossed out of the school grounds.

He appeared in a familiar seedy street, outside a familiar seedy shop, and entered. A very pale Draco was there, flanked by the Carrows, who looked excited, and Bellatrix and CJ, who looked angry. The steely fire in her dark eyes made his stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way. Draco’s left sleeve was rolled up. The Mark was deep black, the skin around it flushed and puffy. He had never issued a summons before, and Severus knew that he hadn’t anticipated the pain to equal that of receiving one. The man swallowed hard.

“Well?” He asked the group, voice low and threatening.

“You two and I will go through first,” began CJ, leveling a finger at brother and sister in turn. Severus rarely raided, and had never been on one with her leading; the flat command in her tone sent a faint thrill from scalp to coccyx. “If it’s clear, I’ll come back for Draco and Severus while you two keep watch. You’ll go to the target’s quarters ahead, clearing any… _obstacles_ … as needed. No unnecessary bloodshed.” She punctuated the sentence with an especially long stare towards her mother. “Bellatrix, you follow a minute or so behind and make sure we’re not tailed. We want this to be fast and discreet. In and out. Ideally they won’t know we were there until they find the body. And remember—Draco eliminates the target. The Dark Lord has been _extremely_ clear on this. Do not intervene unless as an absolute last resort.” This time, her eyes lingered on Amycus. “Understood?”

Personally, Severus thought this was incredibly unlikely, but he affirmed with the rest of the group. With the personnel selection that they had, unnecessary bloodshed was practically a given. “My Lady, he won’t be in his quarters. He told me he was planning to be up on the astronomy tower until late tonight.”

“Why?” she asked, then, “Never mind. Astronomy tower, then. You all know where it is?” Her answer was a collective nod. “Masks up.” With an unreadable twitch of one eyebrow, CJ lowered her own mask, and led Alecto, then Amycus, into the vanishing cabinet.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes at her nephew’s trembling, sweaty hands. “This is an honor, Draco,” she began, in the voice of one giving a familiar lecture. “You’re lucky to be tasked with the assassination of our Lord’s most powerful enemy, to be—“

“Bella?”

“Snape?” Her lip curled.

“Shut up.”

The woman opened her mouth to retort, but closed it as her daughter reopened the dresser door from inside. “Clear.”

Severus and Draco crammed in with her. When she shut the door, there was a moment of pitch-darkness that seemed to heighten the trio’s other senses. Draco’s ragged, shallow breathing seemed deafening, and CJ’s body was warm pressed against his. Perversely, he wanted her then and there, the adrenaline sexual in its overwhelming presence. He found her hand in the blackness, laced his fingers into hers and squeezed hard. She returned the grip. The darkness seemed to condense and tighten around them, for an instant they could not draw breath, and then the doors creaked open in an enormous room so piled with random objects it could’ve kept every antique store in wizarding Britain stocked for a decade. Draco took the lead, weaving through mountains of junk with practiced familiarity and finally entering onto the seventh floor corridor. “So,” he stammered, looking first at his teacher and then his cousin, “So we just… go?”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” Severus replied irritably.

“I guess… this way?”

They caught up with the Carrows a flight of stairs up, walking leisurely and making no effort to speak in undertones. The castle was empty. Luck, it seemed, was on their side.

Until Bellatrix’s shriek rent the quiet from somewhere below, and green light streamed in through the windows, and the silence exploded into a clamor of voices, student and teacher alike. “Oh, that stupid bitch,” hissed CJ, then whirled around to face the other four. “Severus, you and Draco go ahead.We’ll catch up. You two, with me. Go!”

“The tip!” roared Shacklebolt’s voice, and Severus spun around just in time to deflect the man’s curse. “Death Eaters, they’re—“

The scene devolved into chaos. Seizing the boy by the arm, Severus shoved him into a sprint for the stairs. Students were beginning to spill bleary-eyed into the halls, mingling with aurors, teachers, and Death Eaters. The Carrows shot spells left and right—so much for unnecessary bloodshed. _Don’t kill any students,_ he willed them. _Rough them up a bit if you have to, you’d have my sympathies if you did, but don’t kill anyone._ “Move, Draco. _Move!_ ” Severus roared, and shoved Draco.“Back in your dorms, _now_!” he snarled at the onlookers, knowing that his voice would blow his cover—that was it, then, and Lupin gasped and Severus _hated_.

“Snape?” He stunned the werewolf, who collapsed, and whipped round at CJ’s voice.

“To me! Here!”

In a swirl of black robes, she fired off a spell that hit the ceiling. A chunk of stone glanced off Severus’s shoulder, making him gasp in pain, but as he staggered away from the explosion, he saw that it had done its job. The narrow stairway was blocked; Death Eaters, sans Bellatrix, on one side, Order and students on the other. The foursome began to follow Draco up the spiraling tower to find him, wand out, and the headmaster—

“Dumbledore cornered! Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone,” cried Amycus, with undisguised glee. “Well done, Draco, well done!”

“Good evening, Amycus. And you’ve brought Alecto, too. Charming…” Dumbledore smiled.

Something was wrong with him. He was stooped, leaning heavily on the wall for support, and his eyes closed again and again. It was odd, knowing that he would be watching the man die within the next few minutes. He hated him. He loved him. He was a manipulative, narcissistic bastard who had always treated Severus with all the delicacy of a chess pawn; he was the closest thing to a father the man had ever had. And did he ever, ever shut up? For an instant? His own death imminent?

“Think your little jokes’ll help you on your deathbed, then?” sneered Alecto. Like her brother, she was grinning; unlike him, there was fear in her eyes.

“Jokes?” sighed the old man. “No, no. These are manners.”

Shouts echoed from the stairway, nearer now, and two more hooded figures burst into the room. “Do it,” snarled the larger, and Severus felt his stomach contract. How had Greyback gotten in? The werewolf, in a school—he could only hope that he had been reined in by Bellatrix before he could do too much damage, but—this had not been part of the plan! Chancing a look towards him, he swallowed hard. His face and hands were shiny and black with wet blood. Mouth dry, Severus forced himself to swallow.

“Is that you, Fenrir?”

“That’s right,” he growled, sharp yellow incisors glinting in the dim light. “Pleased to see me?”

“No, I cannot say that I am.”

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.”

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual. You have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?”

“That’s right.” One huge hand brushed, brief yet deliberate, against the small of Draco’s back, and he lowered his head and gave the boy’s hair an audible sniff. The boy cringed away. Severus could hardly blame him. “Shocks you, that, does it? Frightens you?”

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little. And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…”

“I didn’t.” Draco’s voice was barely more than a squeak, shrill and breathy. “I didn’t know he was going to come—“

“I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts. Not when there are throats to be ripped out.” He grinned. “Delicious… I could do you for afters, Dumbledore.”

“No,” snapped CJ. “We’ve got orders. Draco’s to do it.”

“Hurry,” breathed Bellatrix, slipping up so close on her nephew’s other side that in their dark robes, she, Greyback, and the boy between them looked like some lopsided, three-headed beast. Draco’s wand hand was shaking so badly that even if he’d cast the curse it would likely as not have missed.

“He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me,” interjected Amycus. “Look at him—what’s happened to you, then?”

“Weaker resistance, slower reflexes,” he murmured. “In short, old age… Perhaps one day it will happen to you, if you’re lucky.”

There were more sudden shouts from downstairs, and an explosion. The barricade was breached, and Amycus was wasting time on—  
“Now, Draco!” hissed Alecto.

“I’ll do it.” Greyback took a menacing step forwards, but Bellatrix seized his arm with a shriek of protest.

“Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us—“

“Severus,” breathed Dumbledore, and closed his eyes. “Severus, please…” So it had come to this after all. Once again, the man’s prediction had been accurate.

It had been over a decade since he’d killed, but one never did forget how.

He allowed himself a fraction of a second to force air into shock-frozen lungs as the body collapsed against the railing, then over it. Ironic that he had thrown himself off so many years ago—but then, he had survived. “Out of here. Quickly,” he ordered, surprised at how normal his voice sounded, and shoved Draco into a run. The boy was his concern now. CJ could look after herself, and the others, well, he hardly cared what happened to them.

The two flew down the stairs, past the chaos of battle where more Death Eaters had joined, past McGonagall’s stunned face and out of the castle onto the grounds.

“Stupefy!”

Severus ducked before he registered who had tried to curse him. Of course Potter was there, why wouldn’t he be there!? Always had to be in the middle of every-bloody-thing—“Run, Draco,” he roared, and raised his own wand. He would not hurt the boy. He would not permit himself the satisfaction. But he would not allow the boy to hurt himself or Draco.

“Crucio!”

He could have laughed, and parried easily.

“Crucio!”

The hut behind him exploded into flames, and he heard Hagrid shouting.

“No unforgivables from you, Potter!” he screamed. “You haven’t the nerve or ability—“

“Incarcerous—fight back, you cowardly—“

“Coward!? Your father never attacked unless it was four on one, what would you call him, I—“

“Stupe—“

“Blocked again and again until you learn to keep your mouth and mind shut!” he taunted. His voice was raw from the dust inside and the smoky air and the screams.

“Impedi—“

This time, though, it was not Severus who interrupted the attack. The boy dropped to the ground, screaming with what could only be the cruciatus curse, and behind him, wand raised, stood another Death Eater, glowing red in the spell’s reflection.

“No! He belongs to the Dark Lord, we are to leave him—“

The spell stopped, and the caster ran, caught his arm. “Leave him? _You_ leave him! _Move, Severus_!”

“Cari—“

“I said fucking _move!_ ”

And Severus had barely enough time to think _my God,_ that _curse from_ her _?_ before Potter was back on his feet and shouting, “Sectum—“

“No, Potter!” Anger—at the boy, at Dumbledore, at himself, at the world—was exploding out of him like vomit and he was bellowing back something that was almost a confession. The small part of his mind still capable of rational thought begged him to swallow his pride and run, but how could he when—

“Kill me like you killed him, you coward!”

“ _Don’t call me coward!_ ” he shrieked, hardly recognizing his own voice, half-mad with fury, and he shook off the woman’s grip on his arm and sent the boy flying. There was a fraction of near-silence before a scream broke through his fog of rage from just to his right, and he had just enough time to turn before something huge connected with the front of his shoulder, knocking him flat. A hippogriff reared back, missing his face by inches with its knifelike claws as he scrambled back to his feet. Lights popped in front of his vision. _Run_ , he told himself, and hauled a body on the ground to her feet, and crossed the school’s protective enchantments into the forest, and caught Draco by the wrist, and disapparated.

The trio reappeared, panting, in his own dark living room. Draco collapsed to his knees on the floor, panting so hard that his exhales sounded like screams. Severus lowered CJ to the couch, turned on the light, and bent over her. There was blood all over her face and chest. He began to whisper the healing spells, passing his wand over her still body, but nothing seemed to happen. He couldn’t breathe.

“It’s not hers,” gasped Draco. His face was streaked with blood and dirt. “It’s not hers, it’s you—“

Like in a cartoon, where a character runs off a cliff and happily continues until looking down, the excruciating pain came only when the realization that the boy was correct did. The blow to his chest had been delivered by the hippogriff’s clawed forefoot. Turning his wand to his own body, he felt the hot itching of knitting wounds and sank to the couch next to the woman. “But she—“

“Hit on the head, I think,” breathed the boy, rubbing a stitch in his side. “I saw. That hippogriff came out of nowhere and—“

“Ennervate.”

CJ’s dark eyes opened and the man let out an involuntary moan of relief. She sat up on one elbow, massaging her neck. “I think I’m going to be sick.” A few moments passed in silence before she shook her head. “Never mind. Water?”

“Draco, get her a glass of water. Cabinet above the stove.”

Legs shaking, Draco stood and stumbled into the kitchen. “Above the what?”

“The—never mind.”

“Oh! Found it. Aguamenti.”

In the moments with the boy in another room, he kissed her cheek, then her mouth, then closed his eyes and pressed his brow to hers. She squeezed his thigh so hard it was almost painful and whispered, “Are you alright?”

“Bloody hippogriff.”

“Me too. What a shitshow. Are you hurt?”

“Scratched me, but I’ll be fine. And you, besides your head?”

“Fine. I’m going to kill my mother. Fucking stupid bitch, bringing the entire clique into—my father’s going to be _livid_.” The man sat back just in time for Draco to reenter and hand her the water. She took a sip, then followed through on her claim to nausea. “Sorry.”

“Evanesco. You’ve probably got a concussion.”

“No shit. That thing got me right in the occipital. Merlin, I think I popped a vertebra.”

“Where are we?” asked Draco.

“My house.”

“Oh. It’s… nice?” His surprise, and contempt, were apparent despite the attempt at politeness, and Severus shot him a glare. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to be alone with CJ, except perhaps to slap her spoilt little shit of a cousin in the face.

“You’re not hurt, Draco?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then we’ll go. My Lady, are you well enough to apparate?”

The woman nodded.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Apparate?”

“To report back to the Dark Lord. Now.” Dread condensing in the pit of his stomach, he took them each by the arm and vanished with another snap.


	25. 25

This time, they popped back into presence outside the gates of the Manor, and despite what they were there to do, Draco visibly relaxed as they walked through the doors and claimed their seats at the otherwise-full table.

“Severus.”

The Dark Lord’s voice froze the man’s blood, and he swallowed hard but did not speak. He was _furious_ , more so than Severus could remember having seen him since Lucius shat the bed at the Ministry a year prior. Draco sat between his parents, head bowed and trembling.

“You will describe tonight’s events.”

“My Lord—“ His voice was a soft rasp, barely audible, and he cleared his throat. Sweat was beginning to saturate his shirt. “My Lord. I met our Lady, Lestrange, and the Carrows at the vanishing cabinet, as planned, and led them to Dumbledore’s office. Draco had him disarmed but had yet to kill him.”

“And you took it upon yourself to usurp the orders I had given specifically to him.”

“Yes, my Lord. I apologize.” When his eyes darted to CJ, her face was expressionless, but pale. He prayed that she would not intervene in his punishment. No use in both of them being tortured.

“You went directly against my instructions.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Why did you see fit to disregard my word?”

“Forgive me, my Lord. Draco is young. He has not killed before. He was hesitant, and Bellatrix had already summoned the Mark, notifying everyone in the vicinity of our presence. We needed to be expedient.”

“So you blame Bella and the boy.”

“No, Lord. My decision and my actions were mine alone. I only wish to clarify that my motivation was not glory or prestige.”

“Carina. Is this the situation as you understand it?”

“Yes, my Lord. Bellatrix raised the Mark over the castle before Severus even met us. Draco had successfully disarmed our target, and I have no doubt that he would have proceeded with the execution had he more time. Dumbledore has been in a position of authority over Draco for some time; it’s to be expected that he would take a few minutes to gather himself first. Unfortunately, those were minutes we didn’t have.”

Voldemort inclined his head approvingly towards her. “Now, Bella. Explain yourself.”

“I cast the Dark Mark when I arrived,” she snarled, raising her eyes angrily to his. “I, for one, am unashamed of our symbol.”

“Very well, Bella, but it was still impractical. Draco?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I’ll deal with you later. Severus?”

The man rose.

“Crucio.”

It was a common misconception, at least in Severus’s opinion, that the cruciatus was the worst torture curse, though it was certainly the most efficient. It left no marks, and unless maintained for long enough to truly ravage the nervous system, caused no long-term effects. However, the pain ceased the instant it was lifted, and without the fear of permanent disability, the agony was, with practice, tolerable. Tolerate it he did, and well, for what could have been a few minutes or over an hour.

“Sectumsempra.”

The skin on his right forearm split in a neat cut from elbow to fingertip, and he knew what was coming next before it did.

“Decorio.” On either side of the cut, the skin peeled back, exposing muscle and ligament. The air on the unprotected flesh was agony. “Cautero.” A thin tongue of flame wrapped around the arm. The bleeding stopped. The raw pain only worsened as heat exploded up his arm, as blood vessels blistered and ruptured.

“Sectumsempra. Decorio. Cautero.”

On the second body part that the Dark Lord skinned and burned, he cracked. Almost gently, the tall, thin man stooped and lifted Severus’s face to his own, grip tight on his wet cheeks. He pressed the tip of one finger to the back of his jaw and murmured, “Fracto.”

Molars cracked down to the mandible, and he would have screamed if he could summon enough air. The grip on his jaw tightened, and pain exploded across his skull. His mouth was full of blood.

“Disarticulo.”

A series of cracks trailed from the base of his skull to his pelvis, and this time, he did scream, before the mercy of unconsciousness claimed him. When he was revived, moments later, the crotch and thighs of his pants were soaked, but the pain was too great to bother with embarrassment. He had already sicked up the small contents of his stomach, but his body kept cramping as bloody saliva spilled from his lips onto the marble floor.

When Voldemort had taken his revenge, he looked down at the mutilated, sobbing shell at his feet and said quietly, “Such is the fate of those who disobey me. When you recover, I expect you not to fail me again.”

Draco wouldn’t—or couldn’t—look at him while he exited. Bellatrix wouldn’t look away. Drenched in sweat, shivering violently but somehow still scalding hot, he retched over and over onto the floor.

A hand descended to his neck. “Rus. Rus. Are you okay? No, of course you’re not. Shh. I’m so sorry. I’m not great at healing spells, but I’ll help with—here. ”

Too hurt and tired to care if he looked weak, he whined in pain as she began the incantations, tracing burned and flayed skin, cuts, broken and dislocated bones with the tip of her wand and stroking his hair with her free hand. As skin regrew, the hideous wounds faded but the pain did not. She had not minimized her lack of aptitude for healing. “Sorry. I know, I just never learned—I’m sorry. If you’re done puking I’ll give you a Percocet.”

“Please.”

He tried to swallow the pill, but his mouth was too dry. Everything tasted like blood and acid. She raised a cupped hand full of cold water to his lips and he managed to drink a little, and the muggle medication with it. “What else hurts? I’ve done everything I can see, but—God, your eyes. Hold still.” His vision cleared.

“Back,” he whispered.

“Alright. Oh, _Severus_ , you poor thing. He—oh, fuck, that looks bad. Can you feel this?” She pinched one thigh gently and he nodded. “This?” The other, and he nodded again. “You’re not paralyzed. Alright—this is going to hurt.” Her wand touched his back, and he screamed again as vertebrae snapped back into place. “Oh no. I’m so sorry—“ with another small movement of her wand, the most extreme pain of a pinched nerve faded to a sort of buzzing. “Is that everything?”

Exhausted and beaten, he managed a small nod and drew his knees to his chest, instinctively curling up to shield himself in vain from further harm.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know. I’ve got you.”

“I—“

“Don’t talk. It’s alright, Rus. I’m here. I’m sorry I didn’t stop it, but—“

“Y’ couldn’t’ve.”

“No, but I’m sorry. Tell me when you’re well enough to stand and I’ll get you upstairs.”

Even the thought of standing was daunting, so he lay on the stone floor, her caresses small comfort against the torture of the last hours. He couldn’t stop shaking.

“Blood-replenishing draught,” he breathed after a few minutes.

Silently, she summoned it, and when she tilted the vial into his mouth he felt warmth return to his numb extremities.

“What else?”

“Water.”

“Slowly.” He drank a little more, light-headed and sick with fatigue and pain. “Can you stand? You can lean on me as much as you need.”

It was possible if he gave her almost his full weight, and as she half-carried him up the stairs to her and Draco’s wing of the Manor he clung to her in spite of his pride, in spite of his humiliation. His head spun. His knees buckled every time he tried to stand on them. “Strip, get in the tub.” He collapsed against the sink when she let go of him. “Alright, never mind that. Here. Here.” The woman helped him undress, eased him into the hot water. “Do you feel any better?”

“Bit.”

“Good.” She began to rub his feet, his thighs and shoulders, undoing knots in muscles he hadn’t known he had. “Try to rest, okay? Just relax, Rus. It’s over.”

Still he was shaking. He had been tortured before, by many people and many times, but this time had been the worst. “Rina,” he breathed, and found her hand, drew it to his face, cried into her palm. And she let him, and with her other hand, she massaged his aching body, seeming to know instinctively the pain still stabbed fresh as ever. She soothed the spasms, let him reclaim, if slowly, his humanity. She worked the tight spots out of his limbs, she washed his hair, sang muggle rock songs to him, some of which he recognized from his youth—Led Zeppelin, the Smiths, the Cure. Her voice wasn’t mind-blowing, a little throaty, but her pitch was good, and the sound was soothing and mediated the immense pain. Never had he been touched like that. Never had he felt so shielded, so—dare he say it?—loved. The dam had broken and he wept uncontrollably, helplessly, hating himself but so grateful for her, her, _her_.

When the hurt, both physical and mental, had subsided, he stepped out of the water and let her wrap a warm towel around him. “How are you feeling?” she murmured, dark eyes wide with concern, hands barely trembling on his shoulders. “Any better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at healing.” She smiled, a little sadly, and escorted him to her bed. “I’d take you to St. Mungo’s, but given tonight…”

He slumped onto the sheets, returned the light kiss that was as much for her comfort as his own. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh.”

“Thank you.”

“Shh.” She held his head against her shoulder, fingers combing his wet hair. “Stay here.”

“I have to be back at Hogwarts tomorrow.”

“After Dumbledore?”

“I have to get my things. Before everyone wakes up.”

“Then get up early and go back tomorrow. You’re not fit to apparate.” He was faintly aware of how well her body fit next to his, of the soft weight of her hand on his abdomen and the warmth of her breath against his neck, before sleep claimed him.

A knock at the bedroom door woke them both. Everything ached, and his mouth was dry and tasted metallic. For a moment he was not sure where he was, and thought, _This had better be important_ , preparing to find a student at his door before—

“Cari—oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry, I—“ Narcissa was blushing scarlet, standing in the half-open door. Severus jerked the blanket up to cover himself completely, and CJ woke, sat up and threw a protective arm over the man’s chest before relaxing, a hand going to the back of her head.

“Cissa? What’s—“

“I’m so sorry.” The woman had turned her back on them. “I didn’t mean to—I just—“

“Don’t say anything. To anyone.”

“Of course not. I just wanted to—Draco. He—I—oh, hell, it’s so—he won’t talk to me. Please…”

Immediately CJ was alert. “What happened?”

“I can’t. Please. He trusts you, he—“ her voice broke and she fell silent. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, and closed the door behind her, not quite fast enough to hide a sob.

“Fuck.”

“Shh. Rus. It’s okay. She won’t tell anyone.”

“She knows we’re—that’s one more person I have to—damn it.”

“I know Narcissa. She’s good. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.”

He raised a hand to his forehead. “What happened to Draco?”

“I don’t know.” In silence, they lay next to each other until the summer sun was nearly up, warm skin against warm skin. “I should see to him.”

“And I should go.”

“Wait!” She rolled out of bed and kissed him. “You’re stressed. Don’t worry. I’ll handle the Malfoys. Go get your things.”

“Alright.”

“Where are you going after? Cokeworth?”

“Mhm.”

“Can I come visit later? Check in on you?”

“I don’t know, Rina. I...”

“Never mind. I’ll be there.”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

Very sadly, she smiled. “I’ve been told. Alright. Go, I’ll see you. Stay alive.”

“You too.”


	26. 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for a rape & its aftermath in this chapter.

When Severus left, CJ’s snake followed her across the hall into Draco’s quarters. They mirrored hers—the bathroom a little smaller, the lounge and bedroom a little larger—and she knocked gently on the closed door of the bedroom. She could smell gin the moment she entered.

“I told you to go away, Mum!” he half-shrieked.

A few hours ago he and his parents had been summoned. The Dark Lord had invited them to sit, offered them wine from their own stores. Draco’s parents had refused. He had not. Whatever was going to happen to him, he did not want a clear head. Voldemort spoke at length in the way he did; voice flat and barely audible, forcing them to lean closer and hang on every syllable.

“Your father failed me a year ago, Draco, almost to the hour. And you, you have failed this time.”

The boy inhaled to defend himself, but apparently thought better of it and fell silent, staring at the glass in his trembling hands. He was not going to cry. He was not going to make his father ashamed of him, he was not going to make his mother hysterical.

“It is not hard to kill, child. Not if you aren’t weak. I suppose that evidences your character, though, hm?”

 _I’m not weak_ , he thought, but he was too afraid to speak. Perhaps that meant he was.

“You know, it’s easy to punish someone who has strength enough to resist. One must only humiliate him. Break him, and the lesson is learned. But you, Draco—favorite of my daughter’s though you are, you will humiliate yourself at my feet to avoid only a little pain, isn’t that so?”

“Y—“ His voice came out hoarse, and he coughed. “Yes, my Lord.”

His master laughed. “Yes, my Lord. No, my Lord. Are you good for anything besides obsequiousness? You truly are a child still. Tell me, Draco, how well do you obey?”

“As well as I can, my Lord.”

“As well as you can. If I order you to lie still, could you follow that simple instruction?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Slut.” The uncharacteristic vulgarity made all three of them flinch. “I will test that obedience for your punishment. Undress, Draco.”

He sat paralyzed, feeling his mother’s hand contract on his knee. “My Lord?”

“I told you to undress. Stand and do so now.”

As though watching himself from the sidelines, he stood, unbuttoned his shirt, his belt, dropped the clothes to the floor until he was standing there in socks and undergarments, light eyes wide. He was not going to cry.

“All the way. Come, have your parents never seen you before?”

He stripped off shirt and socks, shot a pleading look first at his parents, then at the Dark Lord. His mother’s lips were pressed together and eyes closed, his father’s jaw tight. He was not going to cry. Staring at the marble floor, he dropped the shorts as well, and when he covered himself with his hands, Voldemort smiled.

“Greyback? Take him.”

“No,” Draco breathed, eyes flicking to the door that was now creaking open.

“ _No,_ ” echoed Narcissa, and her husband’s fingers clenched between hers.

None other spoke as the werewolf strode into the room, shirtless and huge and grinning. Draco took an involuntary step back and tripped on the pile of his clothes, sprawling on the floor. He had half-scrambled to his feet when the larger man’s knuckles slammed into his sternum, sending him gagging and wheezing back to his knees. “Please,” he squeaked between desperate, gasping breaths, and the man laughed.

“I’ve wanted you for years, you know.” The voice was a low growl, and as he approached, undoing his own trousers and exposing himself, Draco refused to cry. “Open your mouth.”

The boy shook his head.

“I don’t think you get it. I own you tonight. Now open your mouth or I’ll rip your daddy’s balls off and choke you with them.” It was the poorly suppressed flinch that crossed Lucius’s face that undid him, and shaking, he moved to his knees and opened his mouth, nausea rising in his esophagus as Greyback came close enough to smell—copper and musk and sweat, overpowering and feral. He tasted how he smelled, and Draco gagged, trying to push him away. “Ah, ah, ah—this is all the lube you get, so better get sucking, and make it good.”

Every thrust made the boy retch, and after a few minutes he tasted as much as felt wine come up and spill over his lips. Coughing, he recoiled. “I can’t—“

“Then bend over.”

“Please.”

“Bend over, you bitch. _Now_!” The last word was a roar, and still tasting sick in his mouth, Draco thought in one last feeble attempt at resistance, _I’m not going to cry_ , before his eyes stung and he felt his bottom lip tremble and he went down to his palms and knees on the floor.

The pain when Greyback took him was immense, as though he was being ripped in two. In spite of himself, he let out a sound that he thought would be a wail but came out as more of a breathy squeak. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move for his shaking, and it was only when he thought how much like a nightmare this all felt that he realized his eyes were bulging and mouth twisted in a silent scream. The movements of the man on top of him jolted him forwards in short, spastic movements, and he closed his eyes, clenched his teeth. Something hot and sticky trickled slowly down the backs of his thighs. He felt an instant of relief that it was over before realizing that Greyback was still going strong and it was his own blood that he felt.

It was then that he was, finally, able to scream. A foul-smelling hand clamped over his mouth and a new stab of pain exploded in his abdomen as he was forced to arch his back. He whimpered into the palm, then screamed again when he felt Greyback’s teeth sharp on his shoulder. “No, no, no, don’t turn me, please don’t turn me, please don’t—“

Teeth sunk deeper in and he sobbed in pain, forcing his eyes shut. “Shut up, bitch. How’s it feel to be a pureblood whored out to someone like me?”

He went quiet again, felt his consciousness floating in and out, until the man slammed him into the floor and with a series of loud groans relaxed on top of him. Hot slime spilled down his thighs when he stepped back.

“Thank you, Greyback,” purred the Dark Lord.

The werewolf grinned. “Pleasure was all mine, Lord.”

Draco scrambled for his clothes and didn’t even wait for dismissal before he dressed and stumbled, clutching his abdomen, from the room. He could barely walk, his clothes felt dirty and clinging, and when he locked the door behind him in his bedroom he sank to his knees. He didn’t deserve to sleep in a bed. Part of him thought _shower_ but he couldn’t find the strength. “Sebby?” he asked in a shrill, shaking voice that didn’t belong to him, and when the house-elf appeared, “Need a drink.”

“Would master prefer a—“

“Anything, strong, I don’t care.” He had started to cry again, and when the elf returned with a bottle of gin and a glass of ice, he threw the glass against a wall and collapsed, sobbing. Despite what he’d told his roommates, besides the shot of tequila CJ had given him a year prior he’d never drank anything stronger than butterbeer or wine before, and the burn made him cough, and the feeling of his throat contracting made the tears come harder than ever. He hadn’t cried like this in his memory. For hours, he drifted in and out of tears and consciousness as he made his way through over half of the bottle.

First his mother came and he screamed at her through the door until she left without seeing him. Then, his cousin, the daughter and favorite of the man who’d done this to him, knocked. His father’s absence made him want to break more glasses, and he began to sob again.

“Coco, it’s me. Can I come in?” Though the boy did not answer, she heard the door unlock, and she opened it. Draco was a mess. White shirt half-unbuttoned, a bloodstain on its shoulder, hair disheveled—his eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and the bottle he cradled like an infant was almost empty. “Hey. Hey. What happened? What’d He—“

He pulled the collar of his shirt aside to reveal an oval-shaped wound. “The Dark Lord didn’t do _anything_. He—he said—Greyback—” His voice cracked and he crumpled to the ground, sobbing without restraint or even the slightest attempt to conceal or muffle his state.

“Oh, Coco,” she breathed, and kneeling, took his forearms in her hands. He cowered away from her. “Full moon was two weeks ago. You’ll be okay. I know you’re scared but—“

Recoiling drunkenly, he all but screamed, “You don’t understand! He didn’t just bite me, he—he—“ And then the teenager, who had once been so proud and cheeky, took a swig from the bottle and moaned. “I’m not—I was—he—oh Merlin, he—“ Kneeling next to him, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “I hate myself,” he slurred. “I want to die.”

“What happened?”

“He—they—I can’t. Ask me another time.”

“Tell me.” She heard and loathed the command in her voice. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to—“

“He—in front of my parents! He—he made me— _he raped me_!” A new scream came from somewhere low inside him. “He made me—made me do things—he made me get on my knees, and then he—on the floor, and he—held me down, I didn’t even try to run or fight or—I wish I’d—I hate myself!”

Eyes closing, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Where _were_ you!? You said you wouldn’t let them hurt me, you said—you _promised_!”

“I’m so, so sorry, Draco.”

“You _promised_ ,” he repeated, and crumpled into her arms. A fist made weak contact with her shoulder. “You promised and I thought you’d do it, I _trusted_ you, I—“

She let him shout at her until he wore himself out and fell silent but for gasps and sobs. He whined softly, wordlessly, and her arms tightened around him the way he knew they would. Narcissa had carried him, house-elves had wet-nursed him, but his cousin had always been there in a way no one else had. When as a boy he’d awoken to soaked sheets and swollen eyes, she had been the one to soothe him. “I have something that’ll help you feel better. Give me a sec.”

“He called me—he said I—“ Then, his sobs returning, “I didn’t want it, I’d never done it before, no one will have me now, no one will want me, I’m—“

Shushing him, she rested her cheek on the crown of his head, tracing her wand over his body and murmuring the same healing incantations as she had just a few hours ago. She could’ve killed Lucius. His son had been such a sweet, fragile boy, the worst temperament for a Death Eater, and the man had tried so hard to chisel his son into something tough and fierce, and now he was broken. _I wish you were my kid, not him_ , the man had confessed once after a few drinks past his limit, and when he slapped her affectionately on the shoulder Draco’s entire body had seemed to shrink and slump. _Oh, don’t be so soft._

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m damaged goods.”

“No you’re not.”

“It’s so—I just—my father always—he’s going to hate me now.”

“No, love. He won’t hate you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have fought.”

“Draco, he’s three times your size. Even if you’d tried it wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“But I should have _tried_.” Voice breaking, he dug his nails into her shoulders. “My parents were there, they saw—saw I didn’t fight—they’ll think I wanted it—they’ll—“

“It wasn’t your fault. They know that.”

“I froze up, I couldn’t—I wanted to fight, believe me, I wanted to, but I couldn’t—it was like one of those dreams where you can’t run away from—“

“I know. Shh. I know.”

“Greyback said I liked it. Where _were_ you?”

“With Severus. I’m sorry, Draco, I didn’t…”

“My parents saw _everything_.”

“Have you been up all night?”

The stare he fixed her with was blank. “I can’t sleep. I’m never going to sleep again.”

“Have you showered since?”

“I can’t. I can’t walk. I don’t want to look at myself.”

“You’ll feel better if you wash up. Come on.”

“But it _hurts._ ”

“I know.”

“I’m so…”

“I know.”

He barely made it to the shower before going to his knees. “Help.”

“What d’you need?”

“Help. Make it stop. You can make it stop. Please. Please.”

“I can’t, Coco. I’m sorry. But I’m here with you.”

“Make it stop.” He was still fully dressed, in the same filthy clothes as last night.

“Undress and shower. I’ll get something for you to change into. Just call if you need me.”

“I can’t be alone. Don’t go, I can’t be alone. Just... stay here, and close your eyes.”

“Okay.” She heard the soft thump of his clothes falling to the marble floor, the rush of the water turning on. When a sharp cry was followed by an irregular thud she almost opened her eyes. “Draco?” No response, then, “Draco?”

Silence continued and she opened her eyes. The poor boy had fainted, huddled in the corner of the shower. His cousin turned off the water, wrapped him in a towel, pointed her wand at him. “Ennervate.”

The blue-grey eyes fluttered open. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

“I feel sick.” He turned away from her and demonstrated onto the floor exactly how sick he was.

“Here. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“I want to die. Don’t look at me.”

“It’s not your fault, Coco. And I’m not looking.”

“Why did you—they—He—let him—“ He talked, barely coherent, for the ten minutes it took her to get him into bed, then curled up and fell silent. Tears were now insufficient. He said nothing until she lay down next to him, her arms tight around him.

“You said you’d protect me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just...”

“It’s not okay.”

“You were... distracted. I didn’t think I—I didn’t... I just was so scared. And my parents didn’t do anything and I was just hoping you, you—you’d stop him. Stop it. And I hoped it until he was... until he was—inside—“ His voice broke and again he was silent, shaking in her embrace. “I want to die.”

“I know. It feels like the end of the world, doesn’t it.”

“Do you know? Do you?”

“Yeah, Coco. I do.”

He looked up at her. “Do you really?”

“I do.” Forcing a smile, she tightened her grip on his shoulder, tucked a lock of white-blonde hair behind his ear. Dmitriy had tried to dye his hair that color at Durmstrang. It had taken boxes and boxes of cheap Soviet bleach and he’d had to shave his head to the dark roots a month later anyway after the rest of his hair was dry and breaking. “It gets easier. I promise it gets easier.”

“Who did it to you?”

“It doesn’t matter. But it gets easier after a while.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does it... I don’t think I’m ever going to feel like a person again.”

“You’re still a person. You’re the same Draco as before, you’ve just—“

“No, I’m not. The Draco before is dead.” His voice hitched. “He was stupid. Weak. I hate him.”

“Well, _I_ loved him, and he’s still part of you.“

The boy uttered a soft, pained sound. “I want to die. I feel so... so...”

“Violated.”

He nodded. “And... dirty. And small.”

“Do you want me to stay with you until you can sleep?” At his nod, she stripped to her underwear, pulled one of the boy’s shirts over her head, and lay down, pulling him with her. He shivered until he slipped out of consciousness, and adjusting the blanket around him, she held him a little while longer and grieved for the tiny, innocent boy she’d sworn to keep safe from invisible monsters a hundred years ago.

Narcissa’s eyes were red when CJ found her in her quarters. “Is he...?”

She sighed and sat down next to her, pouring two glasses of wine. Her aunt never drank in the morning, but CJ had figured these were extenuating circumstances. Correctly, it seemed; the woman drained the glass in one and held it out for a refill. “Not at all. He thinks you and Lucius will ‘hate him’ now that he’s ‘damaged goods’—his words, not mine. Blames himself.”

“Of course we—“

“I know _you_ won’t.”

The woman inhaled to reply, shook her head, set down the glass on the vanity, and doubled up, burying her face in her hands and dissolving into racking sobs. CJ’s emphasis hadn’t been misplaced. “He’s not been himself since Azkaban. I can’t—I love him, Merlin knows I still love him, but I hardly know him anymore. I’m sorry, Carrie, I shouldn’t be putting this on you—“

“I’m a psychologist.”

The inhale was almost a hysterical laugh. “I—you know how Lucius is, he’s always _pushed_ him, but he’s never—never been _mean_ the way he—I try to tell Draco it’s not his fault, but he doesn’t believe me—even before he was Marked he was depressed, and this last year, I thought he was going to die, I begged Severus to—Severus!” With a shaky gasp, she looked up, wiping her eyes. “And now you and Severus—Carrie, it’s so dangerous to—you’re the Dark Lord’s heiress and he’s a half-blood and He doesn’t trust him like He used to—“

“I know. He’s said all of that and more to me.”

“Of course I won’t say anything, but—imagine if it had been Lucius who’d walked in on you! Imagine if it had been _Bella_!”

“Yeah, I’d rather not. We were careless. I usually lock up, but after he was tortured like that, you know. I was distracted. Cissa, I’m an adult, I know what I’m getting into, don’t worry about me. Worry about Draco.”

“If Lucius and I die—“

“Shh.”

“—if we die—will you and Severus take care of him? He’s still just a boy, and he’s so—so—“

“Shh. Course we will. But you’re not going to die. This’ll all be over soon.”

The older woman’s head snapped up. “Do you know something? He tells you even more than he does Bella. Has He said—“

“No, but I... Trust me. One way or the other this won’t last the year.”

“I hope you’re right.” She took a sip of her second glass of wine. CJ drained her third and uncorked another bottle.

“To the end of this stupid fucking war.”

Narcissa raised her glass as well. “To the end.”

Draco was still in bed, curled up with swollen eyes and the blanket tight around him, when she returned a few hours later. “Hey, Coco,” she murmured, sitting on the bed next to him and squeezing his shoulder. “Feeling any better?”

He shook his head. It was several days before he spoke again.


	27. 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. Work has been nuts and my mental and physical health are... not great, so this is a bit on the back burner. More soon!

Drunk and exhausted, Severus stumbled through the door to his house, having narrowly missed McGonagall and Slughorn, and stopped at the pub his father had often frequented so many years ago. He had just enough time to throw back some liquor and slam some crumpled bills on the counter before staggering home. The bartender didn’t ask questions. Anyone who walked in in bloody clothes and asked for four Jacks neat at five in the morning on a Thursday did not need to be asked how he was.

He hated that house. Always had. As a boy it had been a prison, a torture chamber; as a man it reminded him of everything he most longed to cut out of his DNA. Almost the moment the door closed behind him, he collapsed into bed, lacking the energy even to fully undress or get under the blankets.

In the dream, he was running. He wasn’t sure who he was running from, but he knew that if he were caught there would be pain. His conscious self would have fought, not fled. The Severus in the dream, though, was unarmed and underfed and very young. And were he caught, there would be pain.

He ran into an unfamiliar house and made for the stairs. With the sort of logic contained in dreams, he knew that upstairs was safe—but the stairs were covered in snakes. How to tell which were venomous? He knew that the knowledge was there, something about the shape of the head, but in the dream felt only fear. One of the snakes was white, and raised her head as though in greeting. One further up on the stairs was huge and fanged and hissed menacingly at him.

He sat down at the long marble table and awaited his fate. His pursuer—his father yet not, paler and taller than he had been in life, with eerie red eyes—slammed the door behind him. The fear was complete and overwhelming.

The man—no, not a man, he was too tall and too pale and his teeth were sharp, and he faded in and out of shadow as though insubstantial—leered. His mouth was _wrong_. He stooped even under the high ceiling, and his voice was breaking glass and cheap spilled whiskey. “Murderer. Monster.” The grin spread across his skeletal face like a chelsea smile. “Evil. Worthless. Freak. Murderer.”

Severus felt a rush of wind raise the hairs on the back of his neck and he turned just in time to see the body hit the ground behind him. Dumbledore splattered across the dusty floor.

If he had been able to scream, he would have, but his jaw felt wired shut. The creature that looked nothing like his father skittered closer, far too fast and jerky for its size, and he needed to be alert but God his eyes kept closing. Every time he forced them open the thing was closer, and then he felt its tongue force past his lips, his teeth, down his throat and he was choking choking _choking—_

Tangled in his sheets, clawing at his throat, he started awake. His heart thudded against his ribs. Swallowing hard, massaging his neck, he rolled onto his side. The darkness seemed thicker, heavier than usual, and, a little embarrassed by the childishness of it, he found his wand and lit it. The room was empty. Part of him had known it would be. A bigger part was relieved. He hadn’t had that dream in years. Usually the corpse was his mother, or else Lily. Usually it didn’t _splatter_.

Sometimes the nightmares were purely fantastical, sometimes they were memory, sometimes they swirled the two together like solvent and powder; in all of them he was much younger, and in all he was breathless with terror. He hated the terror. He’d hated many things about childhood, but the powerlessness, the blind and impotent fear, had been the worst. Once, in primary school, he had been so afraid to draw the teacher’s attention that he had wet himself rather than beg permission to leave. She had pulled him aside later, asked if things were okay at home, but even then he had known better than to trust authority, and he had remained stubbornly quiet. Besides, she had only asked as a formality. There had been plenty of too-thin, skittish, bruised kids before him, and there would be more after, and with his shifty eyes and strange ideas he’d hardly been the most sympathetic of them. Once she gave him a plum, though, and watched him devour it as though he’d never heard of such a thing. Even as a man he remembered how his first fresh fruit had tasted.

Dimming the wand, he curled back into fitful sleep, and the dreams crept back into his mind, so well guarded against legilimency and so poorly against itself. When he woke for the final time that night, shaking and sweaty, it was still dark and he was still alone. His joints felt stiff, especially his hips and back, but the pain had eased somewhat. Lighting a cigarette, he watched the mostly empty street through the window, trying to name the reason for his nervousness. No, not nervous—unsettled.

A crash from downstairs, and the knowledge that someone was in his house sent a surge of adrenaline to his heart. Not bothering to put on a shirt, he seized his wand and bolted downstairs, expecting aurors or—

Or something far worse than CJ, repairing a broken pot and returning it to the ancient stove. She had put on one of his shirts and smiled at his entrance. “Sleep well?”

“Like a bloody corpse.” His shoulders sagged with relief and he moved a hand to his lower back with an almost imperceptible wince. Such ease around another person was as new and burning to him as fresh-poured, molten glass. “Merlin, you gave me a fright.”

“Sorry. We’re having pasta.” Gesturing at two bowls next to the sink, she continued, “I was going to bring yours upstairs. I’m not much of a chef, but the sauce isn’t bad, and I got wine.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s get you back to bed, you’re exhausted.”

“It’s noon.”

“And you’ve had a hell of a last twenty-four hours. Sit down, at least. Eat.”

He obeyed. Shadows even deeper than usual circled the man’s dark eyes, and he had been leaning heavily against the wall. “It’s not—“ he began, noticed at close range that her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “CJ? What’s...?” Her arms were around him before he could construct something helpful to say. “Is it Draco?” She nodded into his shoulder. “What happened?”

Her breathing, deep and tremulous, caught. “Fenrir Greyback,” she whispered. “My father let Greyback... have him.”

“You mean...”

She nodded again, cheek damp against his neck.

“Fuck.”

“I know.” If possible, her grip on him tightened even more. "I..."

"It's not your fault."

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll live, won’t I?” He squeezed her a little tighter. Her narrow waist was firm and warm in his hands, and he closed his eyes, permitting himself to rest his cheek against hers. “And... Thanks. Again. For... last night.”

“Of course.”

“He wants me to apply for headmaster,” he blurted, and she looked up at him and then said, simply,

“Then you have to.”

In that moment, he adored her. Having the guilt, the confusion, the fear simmered down to a simple decision was a balm, and he sat. CJ's snake was loosely coiled by the fire and when his eyes met those eerily blue ones he felt a sudden chill, residual from his dream. He took a bite of the pasta. It was a little heavy on the salt, but he’d eaten far worse, and found himself devouring it between statements. “I suppose I do.”

She curled up on the couch next to him, bowl in her lap and mug of wine balancing precariously on one thigh. It was too sweet for either of their tastes. They finished the bottle anyway. “You’ll do fine.”

“My colleagues will hate me.”

“Yeah, probably.” She kissed him again. “But I won’t. And you’ll be okay. And they’ll know in the end.”

“In the end?”

“After the war.” Her dark eyes narrowed for a moment. “You won’t die. I won’t let you.”

In spite of everything, he smiled at her confidence. “You won’t let me?”

“Absolutely not. Zat is überhaupt verboten."

He began to smile again, then paused. “You cruciated Potter.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“He doesn’t have it in him. You... That was foolish.”

“And you going into that meeting last night injured would’ve been...?”

“He’s a child, CJ.”

She stood back, hands still on his biceps but eyes narrowed. “And you weren’t? I wasn’t? Children are resilient.”

“But...” He sighed. “You shouldn’t’ve.”

“Don’t get all moralistic on me now. It’s war. He’s fine.” Closing his eyes, he nodded, too tired to argue. Then, unexpected; “Antivenin’s giving me trouble.”

“How so?”

“It’s not... There’s something wrong.“ Her dark eyebrows contracted, a thin line deepening between them. “I don’t know what’s wrong—in theory, it should work, but... I’ve been testing on rats and it doesn’t.”

“Antivenins can be tricky. What is it?“

“Neurotoxin and anticoagulant.” She yawned. “There’s something... off, though. It’s not normal venom, and I’m not sure what... Anyway, do you mind taking a look? You’re more experienced than I am, you’ve got your mastery, I’m probably missing something stupid that you’ll catch in thirty seconds.”

He doubted that whatever she was missing would be so minor, but appreciated the heavy-handed attempt at an ego boost nonetheless. “Alright. When?”

“When can you come?” They both smirked a little. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m off summers. End of the week?”

“Great.” She kissed his bare shoulder, then leaned against it and exhaled a sigh that was almost a moan. “How’s your back?”

“Better. But—”

“I’m going to have to keep a close eye on Draco. He’s… not well.”

“Obviously.”

“I know you’re angry with him. It’s okay. But it’d be good for him to hear from you.”

“Later.”

“Later’s alright.” One of her fingers drew lazy spirals on the inside of his thigh. “Your arm looks… perfect. When did you learn to heal so well?”

“I taught myself.” He smirked. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“You would’ve been a great healer. That’s what you wanted to do, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

“Bedside manner could use a little work, though.”

With a forced laugh, he put an arm around her and drew her close. Her body felt very _real_ , tangible and solid in a way few good things did, and he closed his eyes, pressing his nose into her hair.

“I’m so glad I have you, Rus. I don’t know what I’d do if we’d never met. Is it bad how much I want you right now?"

A pang of intense affection struck him and tightening his grip on her, he kissed her.

"Because I... I just want to be close to you, Severus. I want you, and I want us, and... Merlin, I just want to feel like a person, and—" her lips found his throat "—when you fuck me—" she kissed him again, and involuntarily his head fell back and he gasped "—I feel like—" she sucked gently on his earlobe "—a person."

“Rina...”

“I know.” She rested her cheek on his shoulder again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Trousers far too tight, he kissed her again. Setting the dishes on the floor next to the dilapidated couch, she turned towards him and returned it, deepened it. She lay down and he made to follow her, but winced as the movement sent a lightning bolt up his spine and shook his head. “My back—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She sat back up and moved into his lap, straddling his narrow hips. “Is this better?”

“Much.”

Her dress came off, then his shirt, and she pressed up against him, running her fingers through his hair. Taking her face in his hands, he slipped his tongue between her lips, the anger and terror and pain of the last twenty-four hours seeping away under her warm weight. His thumb brushed slowly against her lower lip, nuzzling the corner of her mouth as, awestruck, he hesitated. It still didn’t seem quite real that she would settle for him, and the sense of unreality only intensified when she licked the ball of his thumb, then slowly sucked it between her lips.

“I need…”

“What do you need, Severus?”

Lips parted in a soft gasp. “Time. More time.”

“That’s alright.” Her fingers closed around his wrist, and she swirled her tongue around another finger. “You can have time. You’ve been tortured, of course you can have time.”

“Don’t talk about…”

“Shh. Sorry. Shh.”

With a low, hoarse moan, he closed his eyes against her neck. She kissed his mouth, jaw, throat, his chest and abdomen, sank to her knees in front of him. His head fell back against the couch, and he exhaled another moan as her hand crept up his thigh. When her movements stopped he looked down at her, and met her dark eyes with his darker ones. She was smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t… Don’t laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Her face softened, and she kissed his hip before resting her cheek on his knee. “I was just thinking.”

He tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “About?”

“You. Me.” She kissed the pale skin of his leg again.

“Stop thinking.”

She laughed. Then she bit the inside of his thigh, and he drew a sharp breath, and she laughed again. Her breath was warm. “I’ll stop if you do.”

He tried, and under her attention, felt blood begin to travel south before she returned to his lap. When he entered her she gasped his name against his mouth. His hands contracted involuntarily against her thighs.

Their movements were slow, not quite cautious, and they clung to each other, not daring to allow even a fraction of an inch of space between them. Each movement of his hips sent a stab of pain across his pelvis. He didn’t care. They sought the same respite from the previous night’s horror. A few minutes later, he moaned a warning into her lips as he came hard and completely, shuddering into her, the pain in his back and his mind abating. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, not wanting to let her go, and she seemed to understand, cradling the back of his head in one hand, digging the nails of the other into his waist.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Tonight. Stay here.”

Her teeth worried her full lower lip, and her eyes narrowed slightly, but—“Okay.” They stayed tangled together on the couch a short while longer, CJ gently massaging a hard knot at the nape of his neck. “You should rest.”

“I have work to do.”

“What work? It’s summer. Take a break, Severus. You’ve had a nightmare of a day.”

“Stay.”

“You know I will.”

Desperate for her reassurance, he wanted to ask again, and again, but he silenced himself.

“How are you?”

“I said. Fine.”

“Liar.” There was affection in her voice, but it made him tense anyway. “You can talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk. Doctor.” He had tried to keep his voice light, but the bitterness had apparently seeped through, because she sighed, and tightened the fingers that were in his long hair. “How... are you?”

She kissed him, and he closed his eyes, limbs and tongues tangled. “I’ll be fine, Rus. Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Shh.” Rising to her feet, not bothering to get dressed again, she extended a hand. “Bed. Come on.”

He followed her upstairs, lay down next to her. A deep ache was blooming again in his lower back. He closed his eyes, focusing on the smell and feel of her, and put an arm around her, cupping a breast loosely in his palm. Something needed saying, but he couldn’t wrap his mouth around the words. It wasn’t quite _thank you_ , nor _stay_ ; both plea and confession. He was asleep, nose pressed into her hair and chest against her spine, before he was able to consciously articulate it.


	28. 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for the delay! The ol brain has NOT been keeping up with required serotonin production so I've been hideously unproductive. Here's two chapters for the wait xoxo

“Fuck,” Severus whispered. CJ looked up.

“Figure it out?”

They sat by the cauldron in the lab in the Manor, masks over the lower halves of their faces and eyes dark and focused. They’d fallen into something dangerously like routine that first week of summer. CJ would arrive in Cokeworth late, with food from some muggle restaurant; they would fuck, then eat, or eat, then fuck; they would talk, then sleep; she would be out by dawn. Severus had never trusted routine. He found himself liking it anyway, found himself missing her in the hours of solitude in which he had once sought peace.

He arrived at the Manor late in the afternoon on one of those days and was greeted, as was becoming the norm, by Bellatrix with open hostility and by the others with a sort of neutral acceptance. When he was lucid, Lucius seemed warm towards him. Then again, after Azkaban, after a year at the bottom of the Death Eaters’ social hierarchy, after watching his only son brutally raped, Lucius was not often lucid. Guilt flared briefly in Severus’s stomach when he thought about how little his old friend’s mental state bothered him. The man was certainly _easier to deal with_ silent and detached than he had been arrogant and domineering. And CJ, well, CJ…

_“You can’t have relationships, Severus,” Dumbledore had said once, during the first war. “You’re a spy. You cannot allow yourself to be distracted. Not for a moment—no, not even by love.”_

At the time Severus had sneered and rolled his eyes, a twenty-year-old with a broken heart and an underdeveloped frontal lobe, but now… CJ _was_ distracting. More a distraction from every other part of his life than from espionage, but a distraction nonetheless.

“The snake’s a horcrux.”

Her eyes widened, pupils contracting even in the dim light. “Can you? With living—“

With a small, sharp nod, he gestured at the syrupy liquid in front of them. “It’s the same curse as the ring that… that the headmaster destroyed last term. There’s no antidote for _that_. And he said—“ When he drew breath, CJ looked at him curiously, but he spoke no more.

“So… what do we do, then? Phoenix tears? Countercurse?”

He shook his head. “Phoenix tears _might_ work, but good luck finding those. I think, and mind, this is a hypothesis, but I _think_ … it won’t work until He’s…”

“Dead?” CJ closed her eyes, bit her lip hard in defeat. “Well, shit. How many do you think He has?”

“Clearly at least three.”

“Four.”

“Four? The ring, the snake...”

“A book. Lucius tried to plant at Hogwarts a while ago but it backfired. And then, I’d put money on it, whatever Dumbledore was after the night...”

He was grateful that she trailed off. “That’s almost unprecedented.”

“Ring, book, snake, and...” She narrowed her eyes. Her fingers laced in between Severus’s, then tightened.

“And Potter.”

“And _what_!?”

Without opening his eyes, he nodded again.

“How? _What_!?”

“It was an accident,” he breathed. Nausea rose in his stomach. “The night He was... the night we _thought_ He was defeated. The Headmaster—“ Slowly, as though confessing a personal shame, he repeated what Dumbledore had told him. “He said that He—the Dark Lord—would become protective of the snake, and to tell Potter then to... sacrifice himself. After that...”

“Kill Potter, kill the snake, and you kill Him.” She inhaled slowly. “Neither can live while the other survives. More literal than I thought, then. More literal than He thinks.”

“Fortunately.”

“Ring, book, snake, Potter, something else.”

“And how many more?”

“Think about everyone He’s killed. Could be four, could be... dozens.”

“No. The most that have ever been associated with one person is seven, and that was hundreds of years ago—there’s no proof that it ever even happened.”

“Seven,” she repeated, and he saw something darken in her face. “Seven. He said, when I was a kid... something about arithmancy. Seven by... I don’t remember. He was obsessed with it, for a while, you know how He gets with ideas.” Her head rose. “I’d bet it is seven. But what? And where, and...? If I had a horcrux, I’d make it something small, and throw it in a lake or somewhere, but—“

“But the Dark Lord cares too much for symbolic power,” Severus finished, but she had frozen. “CJ?”

“Symbolic—you’re right. Potter was an accident, the book and the snake are His own possessions. What do you know about the ring? The other ones must be... things that belonged to Him, significant things, or they must represent... something He wants. Not emotionally significant—“

“Obviously.”

“—obviously, and not expensive, that wouldn’t mean anything. Anyone with money can get it if it’s expensive.” The vertical creases between her eyebrows deepened and she rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “Things He thinks He has a... right to.”

“Heirlooms, artifacts.”

“Yes, but what I don’t understand is…” The man at her side allowed a few seconds’ silence before he prompted her to continue, but she only shook her head. “He’ll keep them somewhere safe. Probably on his person. It wouldn’t be like him to trust someone else with something like that.”

“Jewelry would make sense. Small, unobtrusive—“

“But we’d notice if He was all pimped out.” For the first time that day, her face twitched in a smirk, and he returned it, tightening his grip on her hand. “Well. We can leave this for now, then, I suppose. If you think the potion _itself_ looks alright, and neither of us knows how to make an antidote to _horcruxes_ …”

“I don’t if you don’t.” He recognized the gleam in her eyes and leaned into it, kissing her.

“Take some,” she murmured into his lips.

“Hmm?”

“Take some. Of the antivenin. In case.”

“Oh—right.”

She pressed two vials into his palm. “You know how to use a hypo?”

“Only in theory.”

“Stick the needle in the tube, pull the plunger back, find a vein, stick it in, push it down. Make sure you don’t inject any air. I like to do it—“ taking his wrist in one hand, she rolled up his sleeve and pressed a finger to the crook of his elbow, “—here.”  
“Thanks.I hope I never need to remember that.”

“Me too. Now… where were we?”

“Around here, I think,” he said, and pressed his mouth again to hers.

“Horcruxes,” CJ repeated, loosely twisting a lock of black hair around one finger as they lay in bed a short while later, Severus’s head on her chest. “Knew there was one, knew about the book. Didn’t expect plural.”

“Shh,” replied Severus, not much wanting to discuss the subject in the warmly aching afterglow.

“But I suppose it makes sense. He likes the _drama_ , doesn’t He, and the—“

“Rina…”

“I don’t know, Rus. I’m freaked out.”

“I know.” He shifted his weight onto one elbow, moved up to her height. “But…”

“And if He—“

“Carina!”

She sighed, kissed his neck, sending a jolt down his back. Incredible how in the midst of a civil war he’d had more sex in a few months than in the prior thirty-seven years; ironic how her most basic affection still made him taut as a bowstring. Would attention, he wondered, always make him shiver?

“Severus?” she breathed, and her voice sounded somehow young, fearful in a way he didn’t associate with her.

“Mm?”

“I—“

It took a few seconds for him to realize that she had lapsed into what was not silence, but shaky, uneven breathing. He knew the sound well. It was not panic, not yet, but the last moments’ scramble for grounding before panic would set in.

“Mm?”

“Sometimes it’s like my brain gets stuck.” Her next breath was long and tremulous. There was little light in the room, but he could just make out her silhouette; arms crossed under her breasts, lips slightly parted, eyes closed. “But I just keep imagining slitting my throat. I can’t get it out of my head.”

He lay wordless next to her, thumb lightly tracing her arm.

“That’s why I drink, you know. If I stop I don’t know what I’ll have the energy to do.”

Still he didn’t speak, and he felt more than saw her turn her head towards him.

“Do you think I’m crazy? For thinking that? It’s sort of funny, isn’t it—my father’s whole thing being immortality, and here I am, like, God, just make it fucking quick.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Oh.” Her hand found his, contracted knuckle-popping tight over it. “Sometimes I do. Psychology is so weird. I know all the terminology, I _know_ what’s wrong with me, but I can’t fix it.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you’re here. Even just to listen to me being crazy.”

“ _This_ is crazy. _You’re_ not crazy.”

“Feel how fast my heart’s beating.” He complied when she guided his hand to the side of her sternum. Less racing than pounding, a fierce staccato against his fingertips. “I know you get depressed,” she continued. “But do you ever feel the walls closing in like this? Like you’re in one of those dreams where you should be running but you can’t move?”

“More often than I wish,” he murmured. “Shh.”

She moved closer to him, as though for comfort, and yet again he felt one of those odd surges of affection-protectiveness-possessiveness so strong it was almost violent. He’d call it any compound he could think of if it meant not calling it _that_.

They lay there, chest to chest and nose to nose, for what felt like hours. One would open their eyes just to see the other’s close, breathing would ease and catch. “After this,” she whispered, “I’m never coming home again. Back to Britain, I mean.”

Of course he had expected, had known it would come eventually, but the flatness of it while they still lay skin on skin in bed together was like a vice to his chest. “Right.”

“Come with me.”

 _What_? “You’re leaving.”

“Yes. The stupid island, not you.”

“Where?”

“New York. I don’t know. Not here.”

“I’ve never been.”

“You’ve never been anywhere, Rus. If you hate it there are a dozen other habitable places just in the US.” She snuggled closer and he felt the tension in her shoulders as they rounded into his embrace. “And then there’s the rest of the world if we get sick of there too.”

“My whole life...”

“And you’ve been happy here? You need a change of scene as much as I do. Give New York a shot, it’s not so bad, especially not when you leave Manhattan. I know you like your space, your quiet—you can have that in Brooklyn, or Queens...”

“I did like the Ramones as a kid,” he conceded. As long as it stopped her talking about slitting her throat.

“We can go everywhere,” she murmured, one hand finding his hair and beginning to slowly stroke it. The repetitive motion was unexpectedly soothing, and he found his eyes involuntarily closed. “Anywhere. We can get a boat.”

“I hate the ocean.”

“No you don’t, you just haven’t seen a part of it you like yet. You can’t hate the great barrier reef, or,” she yawned, “Raja Ampat.”

“I can’t swim.”

“What? I’ll teach you. Or you can just sit on the deck. Work on your tan,” she teased.

“Stay in the cabin and get seasick, more like.”

“Fine. I’ll go on my boat alone. We can go skiing, do you ski?”

“Never been.”

“Oh, give me something to work with.”

“Fine—I’ll learn to ski. No sharks in the mountains, right?”

“Not besides me. You’ve never been on a proper vacation, have you? Gone somewhere overseas and just... had fun, relaxed?”

“Never been overseas, never relaxed, certainly not at the same time.”

“I’ll make a backpacker of you yet,” she sighed into his chest.

“Good luck with that.”

“Thank you, Rus. For distracting me.”

He hummed a reply. In truth, he’d been hanging onto consciousness by a thread since rolling off of her over half an hour ago. “Go to sleep,” he murmured, and her hand tightened on his shoulder.

“How do you kill a horcrux?”

“Dumbledore used a sword.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If it’s that easy...”

“Easy? Damn thing almost burnt his hand off. Besides, I think there’s something about that sword specifically.”

“You know what I mean. How’d Potter deal with the book?”

“Stabbed it with a basilisk fang, I think.”

“Well, that fits. Don’t know anything their venom wouldn’t kill. They aren’t exactly a knut a dozen, though.” She yawned, snuggling closer to him, her skin soft and warm and unblemished. Again he was made painfully aware of the state of his own body compared to hers. “I’m meeting with Kingsley and Alastor tomorrow, by the way. I’ll ask them if they know anything.”

“Mm. Be sure to tell them we’re on the outs.”

“Oh, absolutely. Haven’t told you anything, haven’t seen you since Hogwarts.”

He slept fitfully, awoken every few minutes by the same sinister dreams that had plagued him worse since Dumbledore’s murder. He’d been asked—begged—to do it, but it didn’t make it easier. Though he felt cold, he was sweating as though he’d been sprinting, and he stared into the darkness with empty eyes. His head hurt and he was exhausted, and not for the first nor last time the thought occurred to him that there were dozens of poisons just a few rooms over. It would be easy to put a lid on his existence. There had been so little good in it anyway.

 _After you do your duty,_ he thought _. After Potter knows what he’s supposed to do. Then you can end it. Then you can rest._

It would, he reflected, be different if he had hope. But there were three options. One: he would die, likely after prolonged torture, before being able to fulfill his promises to Lily, to Dumbledore, to himself. Two: Voldemort would win and it would never end. Three: Voldemort would lose and he would spend the rest of his life—and he was only thirty-seven, so that could be a long life indeed—alone in a cell in Azkaban. Yes, death at his own hand would be preferable.

It would be nice to fantasize of a fourth option: Voldemort would lose and somehow, miraculously, he and CJ would both survive, and he would be cleared, and—most indulgent of all—she would have him. They could have a life together, not as spies darting into side rooms for scraps of physical and emotional catharsis but as... Partners? Lovers? Something he had never dreamed he’d have.

But Severus had never been one for indulgence. Rolling back onto his side, he dismissed the glow of a better possibility and tried to will his rapid heartbeat to slow. 

CJ sat up next to him at the movement, and slurred, “You alright?”

Pressing his palms to his eyes until he saw bright lights behind them, he nodded. “I was... back there. In the dark, with my father.” The dark eyebrows contracted over closed eyes. “It was him, but it wasn’t.“

“I know.” She kissed his hairline, cold sweat on warm, dry lips, disheveled hair brushing his cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

The next time she woke, he was gone. She breathed in the comforting smell of him still on the pillow, cigarettes and something warm and unique to him, then rolled over and stood, stretching until her joints popped. She took more time in the shower and at the vanity than usual, and only apparated to London once she was corseted and cloaked, with every hair in place.

No one would have described CJ as a particularly anxious person, but the weight settling in her chest could only have been described as fear. She knew what she would say for herself, but for Severus... She could have slapped herself for kissing him in front of the entire Order. At the time, it had seemed right, even necessary, but in hindsight, it had been reckless.

She’d been masked that night in the Department of Mysteries, so no one looked twice at the tall, striking woman walking through the Ministry atrium as though it were a runway except to admire her posture and dress. It was rare that someone so visibly wealthy went unrecognized in that building—unrecognized, at least, until she’d descended another few floors to the aurors’ office. Cuffs clicked around her wrists, locking her hands behind her back, and she sighed, pausing mid-stride.

“If I were here for a fight I would’ve brought backup and worn flats,” she announced to the men suddenly flanking her, and Moody and Shacklebolt each took her by an arm and escorted her into a chair in a side room. The pink-haired young woman from the Order shot her a look that was half-apologetic, half-confused, and she returned a wry smile and rolled eyes. “Honestly, no need to—“

“What do you know about Snape? He’s a double agent and you’re involved with him,” Moody snarled.

CJ rolled her eyes even further back. “Was involved. Am no longer, due to, ah, aforementioned double agency. I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”

“But he knows you’re a spy.”

“No, he doesn’t. He brought me to the Order meeting thinking it was an infiltration, which brings me to—am I formally in, or?”

“Right now, all you formally are is under arrest.”

“I’m what?” She sat up straighter, every inch the pureblood heiress offended at such mistreatment. “After all I’ve helped you with?”

“And all you’ve potentially leaked to You-Know-Who.”

“Which is nothing.”

“Conveniently, I’ve seen myself you’re a good enough occlumens to bluff anyone.”

“Including Him.”

“Including Him, a better legilimens than either of us.”

“And I’ve _been_ bluffing him. I’ve been risking my fucking life because you want information, you want strategy—remember the attacks I’ve warned you about? The shituation in the department of mysteries last year, the raids—Dawlish and Robards would be dead if I hadn’t notified you they’d need reinforcements. You think I’m doing that, what, for fun?”

“Black,” began Shacklebolt, raising a hand and glaring at the other man, “You’re not under arrest.”

“Not yet,” muttered Moody, one eye locked on her face and the other spinning wildly around in his head.

“We just need to know how much you know about Snape. He’s a wild card and you know him likely better than anyone else. Did you know he was going to kill Dumbledore?”

“Draco was supposed to, but he couldn’t.”

“Draco Malfoy!? You were supposed to control—“

“Alastor!” She slammed both cuffed hands down on the table between them. “He’s nearly seventeen and you know I don’t override my father, I can only control him so much! Dumbledore was dying anyway, he’s, like, a thousand years old and Severus said that cursed hand would’ve taken him out in months anyway.”

“Severus said—so you are still talking?”

“Of course we are, he’s a Death Eater and thinks I am as well. It was common knowledge that Dumbledore was dying, Draco taking him out was meant to be a formality, an initiation.” The aurors exchanged glances, and she sat straight, eyes blazing. “Severus killed him, it wasn’t smart but he was a dead man walking anyway.”

“So murder’s excusable if—“

“Alastor, take a walk. Cool down,” Shacklebolt interrupted, raising a hand. “This isn’t the first war.”

“What’s that supposed to—“

“Take. A. Walk.” The man whirled around and left, slamming the door behind him. His colleague sighed heavily and sat. “Can I have your word you won’t kill me?”

“Sure.” The cuffs disappeared and she massaged her wrists surreptitiously. “Thanks.”

“You know how he can be. Dumbledore was a blow, so he’s been even more agitated since. I’ll ask you the rest of our questions, and then you can go, alright?”

“Fine. Is the arrestee allowed questions?”

“I said you’re not under arrest. But yes.”

“One—I think it would make sense for me to go to Order meetings from here on. I don’t have Severus’s updates, and I’ll be able to more regularly catch you all up.”

“We’re without headquarters right now as Dumbledore was secret-keeper. But, once we set up somewhere new—yes, I agree that would be... prudent. Did you have another question?”

“Yes. Can you have someone get me an Irish coffee?”

The man almost smiled. “After I’ve finished questioning.”


	29. 29

He kept the interview mercifully brief before sending her on her way, escorted by pink-hair and with the instruction to get her breakfast on the Ministry bill.

“What’s your name again?”

“Tonks. CJ?”

“Right. You don’t have to come with, you know. I can pay for myself.”

“It’s a slow day.” She looked suddenly a little sheepish. “And I did want to talk to you, actually. Not about... war stuff—well, not really.”

“After you buy me my drink.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“And I want a fucking drink.” She smiled in the way that always shut even the most raucous Death Eaters up. “So buy it, and we’ll talk.”

“Alright. Sorry, I just...” And then she turned her face away—funny, genetics, she moved her hand to her mouth the same way Draco did—and even in the sunlight her hair seemed to lose some of its luster. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know if you’re still, you know, an item, but—how did you do it? With Snape? I mean, he’s older, and he’s—I don’t really see him as the dating type, and this other bloke—they’re the same age, and he thinks I’m too good for him, or he’s too good for me, or... or something, but I’m in love with him, and—sorry.” She slipped into a booth, head down, and CJ ordered a bloody Mary, a plate of French toast, and two Irish coffees. Morning be damned, Tonks looked like she could use one. When the waiter returned, the auror took a sip of hers and choked a little. “What’s in this?”

“Calming draught. Now, who is he?”

“Remus Lupin. I don’t know if—you might not remember him from the order, but... I don’t know, I’ve never dated men before, and they’re _confusing_.”

In spite of herself, CJ smirked into her coffee. “Me too.”

“What?”

“I’d only ever been with one man before Severus too. Genetic, maybe? And yeah, they are... stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

Tonks smiled, if a little weakly. “I wanted to talk to you that first time we met, you know. I knew about the Malfoys, but we never met, and I didn’t know you existed until then. Sort of cool. Cousins.”

“Draco’s a good kid. Going through it, but a good kid. And I didn’t know you existed either.”

“What do you do? Normally, I mean, besides spying.”

“Forensic psychology. It’s—“

But Tonks’s eyes had widened. “My dad loves Law and Order. He’s muggle-born, which is why—“

“Right,” she laughed. “Law and fucking Order.”

“Is it accurate? At all?”

“Sometimes. Not usually.”

“I’m sorry. For being like...” she gestured at herself. “This. How much alcohol is in this?”

“Not a lot. Lightweight. And it’s fine. So, Remus Lupin. What’s going on?”

Whether it was the alcohol, the subtle influence of legilimency, or simply having a fellow young woman to talk to, Tonks stopped talking only to devour her half of the platter of French toast. CJ kept refilling her drinks—on Ministry coin, so why the hell not—and nodded occasionally, and wondered briefly what it was that her cousin saw in the man before considering that one could ask the same of her. By the end of the meal, Tonks had finished being weepy and CJ stared fixedly into her half-empty mug before draining it and raising one hand for another refill. Tonks opened her mouth, then closed it and smiled politely when the waiter added some tepid coffee and a generous pour of bottom-shelf whiskey to the cup.

“CJ?”

“Mm?” She didn’t look up, just swirled the spoon idly around the mug’s rim without movement of her hands.

“Do you miss him?”

The woman shrugged.

“Snape, I mean. Since... what happened.”

She shrugged again. Over the hour and some they’d been at the table, her bold, glamorous presence had wilted somewhat. Almost cautiously, Tonks moved her hand across the table and squeezed her cousin’s.

“It’s okay if you do, you know. You didn’t know he was...”

When CJ raised the hand that wasn’t being held, it was with tension and exhaustion in every line of her face, every saccade of her eyes blurred with unfallen tears as much as drink. Neither spoke for several long seconds, until the darker-haired woman blinked hard a few times, looked up, and smiled, a little stiffly but convincingly. “I’m fine. It’s been... chaotic, since the ministry. The Dark Lord’s more paranoid than usual, and more... violent. But I’m fine.”

“We appreciate you doing this. We, the Order, I mean. Old Mad-Eye’s just... hell, he’s a little paranoid too. He suspected Snape, and no one listened to him, and now that he’s been proven right it’s got him pretty wound up. But he knows you’re on our side. We all do. We know it’s not easy, what you do. Okay?”

CJ smiled again, weaker but more sincere. “Thanks. I should go.”

Tonks’s face fell slightly. “Hey, if we make it through this, we should... what d’you do for fun? Concerts, clubbing, or—you can’t just work, right?”

There were tears again, and a laugh. “Yeah, I like clubs and concerts. I’ve never worked—well, I was an apothecary assistant part-time, but I’ve never had a real job. I was supposed to start, but this all started right when I finished school.”

“You’ve been in school this whole time!? What are you, a healer?”

“Doctor.”

“No shit.” Grinning, the woman gave the back of her hand a light slap. “You-Know-Who’s daughter is a doctor! What kind? My aunt’s a... oh, what is she... She treats, you know, crazy people.”

“Me too.” She gasped out a soft sob, and then both of them were laughing so hard through their bloodshot eyes that they all but collapsed onto the table. “Fuck,” she snorted, dabbing black smudges off her cheeks with the napkin.

“I’m glad you’re not... you know. You seemed kind of intimidating at the Order meeting. But I wanted to be friends. I don’t have any family on my mum’s side, and my dad’s—they’re nice, but, you know, Muggles. They think I’m a cop.”

“ _You_ thought _I_ was intimidating!? You’re an auror with pink hair!”

“ _You’re_ a hot spy with a doctorate! And _duh_ , I’m hot, I’m a metamorphmagus, I can look like whatever I want.”

“If you weren’t my cousin...” She winked, then choked on her spiked coffee.

“When’s _that_ ever stopped purebloods?” They both burst into renewed peals of laughter, attracting some side glances from the diner’s other patrons. “Oh, this is good, CJ. I haven’t laughed like this ages.”

“I haven’t either.”

“Come to the next Order meeting, okay? If you can. My parents’ house is probably going to be new HQ. We can watch a movie, or something.”

“That sounds really—really nice. How will I know when? You can’t send me mail or a patronus, my father intercepts everything...”

“We’re not _that_ secret of a society, and we all work. Unless there’s some last-minute crisis, they’re nine at night on the first Friday of the month. Here—“ she transfigured her fork into a pen and scrawled an address on her napkin, then slid it across the table. “Just... show up. Or not for a meeting, if you, you know, want to visit, and my parents know how to reach me. I usually have mornings off on the weekends.”

“Thanks.” They exchanged self-conscious, tearful smiles, then, standing, hugs. “I can’t promise anything, but—“

“I know, just, if you want a break from—“

“Right.”

“You get going, wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Sure you’ve got the bill?”

“Think Scrimgeour can’t afford it?”

“Thanks again, then.”

“Thanks for listening to my... you know.”

“Course.”

She forced a last smile, then walked out of the restaurant, ducked into an alley, and doubled up into the hardest crying fit she’d had in what felt like a lifetime. When it subsided, she leaned back against the wall and drew some shaky breaths of summer air. The outburst had been embarrassing, but cleansing, and she felt suddenly lighter than she had in the lonely years since she’d returned to England. Draco was one thing, her phone calls with Dmitriy and Eliot another, the stolen hours with Severus another entirely, but having a real friend, there in person, laughing about inane bullshit—she’d missed it more than she’d realized. She was also, in hindsight, drunker than she’d realized before walking a block and a half in stiletto heels. Passing her wand over her face to fix her makeup, she stumbled around London until she’d both sobered up and found the Leaky Cauldron.

“Need your Floo,” she told the bartender, slapping a galleon down in front of him.

“That’s free, ma’am, sure you wouldn’t like anything to... do I know you?”

 _Not unless you read the Daily Prophet a few years ago, and I look more like my ten-year-old self than I thought_ , she thought, but said only, “You recognize everyone who’s been here before? And if you’re offering, I’ll take a Horntail martini.”

“Sure you don’t want anything to eat? Those are strong, those—“

“Just the drink.”

She downed it, grimacing at the momentary scalding sensation at the back of her throat as it ignited, then tossed a handful of the proffered powder into the private fireplace at the back of the bar. “Malfoy Manor, west wing,” she ordered, keeping her voice low despite the lack of people in earshot, and vanished in a whirl of green fire.


	30. 30

Draco sat on the foot of his bed and stared at the wall.

The basic functions of life had grown immeasurably difficult since the night of—the night when—the last night of his school year. Getting up, for instance. It had been nearly two hours since he had awoken, and he had managed only to move from a lying to a seated position. A voice in his head was disgusted, contemptuous, but he found that although he could ignore it he did not want to. It felt like justice. He had lost weight that summer, the omnipresent shadows under his eyes had darkened. He drank nearly as much as CJ, though didn’t hold it as well as she did. More than once he woke up with no memory of how he’d gotten to bed, or not in his bed at all but on the floor of his shower or in a chair. Once he woke with vomit down his front, a few times with whatever he fell asleep wearing saturated with piss. His hands shook constantly. He did not much care.

He stood, shaky as a child, and let the blankets fall from where he’d been clutching them around his thin shoulders. His head hurt. Mechanically, he walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower water. The room was filled with steam before he had found the strength to undress and get in. A glass of something was on one of the shelves and he drank it. Cognac, watered down with melted ice. He grimaced. The burn in his throat and nostrils was surprising. He had forgotten that he could still feel.

When he had let the water pound over him for a few minutes, he dried himself and dressed. Getting dressed was one thing he still did quickly. He could not bear the sight of his skin, or the feel of air on it. Then he poured a fresh glass of cognac and stood in the foyer of his quarters, swaying slightly and sipping it. When a knock rang out, he jumped but said nothing.

“Coco? Can I come in?”

He sighed, sipping at the cognac. His eyes felt heavy. This had become something of a routine, CJ cornering him and trying to get him to _process_ or _unpack_ or _offload._ It wasn’t that he didn’t want to as much as that he didn’t know what words he could use. He was a Malfoy and a Black and a man and a pureblood. He had not been raised to talk about such things. Such shameful, awful, dirty, vile, nasty, humiliating—

“If you want, my Lady.”

Her eyes were soft when she opened the door, and he looked away. “I told you not to call me that,” she admonished, but her voice was gentle.

“Sorry.”

“’S alright. Sit down.”

Grateful for someone giving him an order, he sat, fingers interwoven around the glass. She put an arm around him and he was horrified at the unexpected tightness rising in his throat. That was another thing that had changed since the night when—that—since he’d come home. He kept bloody crying at everything. His father didn’t even shout at him about it anymore. Of course, his father didn’t speak to him or look at him anymore, if he could help it. Something darkened in his eyes when he saw his son, and Draco would realize after years and years that it was not shame but guilt.

“You’ve had a hard summer, haven’t you, Coco.”

He thought that the tightness in his throat would rupture into full-blown tears if he spoke, so he nodded and took another sip of the cognac. It made time pass. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but making the days go by faster was no curse these days.

“It’s okay if you don’t know what to say,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

He did not, but he nodded again. He wanted her to leave so that he could go back to bed. Sleeping made time pass too, and if he drank enough the nightmares ceased.

“Talk to me about it.”

Fuck. He swallowed hard. “I don’t remember.”

“You asked me to make you a poison.” She tightened her hand again on his shoulder, and now his lower lip was trembling convulsively. There was a long silence. “More like you begged me. You were… very drunk. I brought you to bed and you passed out pretty quick, but you said that you couldn’t stop thinking about what Greyback did to you, and the only thing that would make it stop was suicide.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.”

“Of course you meant it. After what happened to you? Of course you meant it. That’s why I’m worried.”

“What do you want me to say?” His voice broke, and he drained the glass in a few gulps to try to disguise it. He couldn’t talk about this, but if she was going to make him, he sure as hell wasn’t doing it sober.

“Anything.”

“I don’t want to talk about… _him_.”

“You don’t have to. Just talk.”

“I don’t know how.” Through his tears, through his shaking, the words came out halting and slurred. “I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t even feel human anymore. Everything is so…”

He trailed off into quiet, defeated sobs, hunching his shoulders and bowing his head. There were a few minutes of silence, and then, “You can’t keep drinking like this.”

“ _You_ do.”

“I’m older than you, and I weigh more, and I eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not hungry because of how much you drink. And you’re young. You’re going to fuck your frontal lobe.”

“Please, Ceej. Please. Just… stop. I can’t do this.”

“You need to. You’re still you, Draco, you’re still intelligent and funny and—“

He shook his head hard. “I’m not, I’m not anything anymore—“

“This will end. I swear you will see the end of it.”

“I don’t care. It’s never going to get better. I don’t care, I don’t want to see the end of it, I just want it to _stop_ —“

“I know. It feels so bad. I know. I love you.” He started a little at the words. “I love you. Your parents love you—yes, even Lucius. We all love you and I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you’re not alone.”

“What if He kills me?”

“Draco. I promise—I will not let that happen.”

“What if He kills my parents? What if… I can’t do this. I wish I’d never gotten the Mark, I wish I’d—I want to go back and undo everything. I keep seeing Dumbledore dying and—and the—what happened—you know—after—I keep thinking about it and I, I…”

She was hugging him, whispering reassurances, and he was _bawling_. Though they were in almost the same position in almost the same place as when he’d come to her after he’d botched the first assassination, there was a defeated, despairing note to the sounds he made now. CJ had both experienced and seen what running out of fear looked like, when terror became so acute that nothing afterwards inspired it, but for no reason other than luck she had not crumpled under the overwhelming weight of adrenaline the way Draco had.

“I don’t want to live like this,” he breathed.

“That’s a step up from not wanting to live at all.”

“I don’t want to live at all either.”

“Do you? Or do you want to stop feeling this shitty?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“I can’t. I can’t undo… I can’t go back and…”

“Shh. No, but you can learn to live with it.”

“I can’t live with it.”

“You can’t right now. You’ll be able to. It’s like learning to walk again after a bad injury. It’s hard, I know it’s hard. But you will.”

“What if no one wants me when they find out I…?”

“Anyone who doesn’t want you because of that doesn’t deserve you.”

“I don’t want to die alone.”

Their marks burned, and he looked at her helplessly. She kissed his hair, helped him to his feet, passed her wand over his face to soothe the redness and swelling. A soft hiss, and when the white snake slithered through the cracked door she scooped her up, draping her around her shoulders. He clung to CJ’s hand as they walked downstairs, and she let him almost until they were in the room with the long table. When they entered, though, he barely stopped himself seizing it again.

Suspended over the table as if hanging from the ceiling was a woman, silencing spells covering the sounds but not visuals of her crying. A trail of bloody saliva ran down one swollen cheek, slowly dripping onto the table. Her hair was tangled and filthy, her clothes so tattered that she was nearly nude, but he recognized her—oh God, he recognized her. With enviable lack of reaction, CJ sat at her father’s left, tucking her hair composedly behind one ear. Fighting nausea, Draco took his seat at his mother’s side and fixed his gaze on his quivering hands. Merlin, he needed a drink.

The Dark Lord spoke briefly with his daughter and their snakes, something in parseltongue, then smiled as the last two men entered the room. “Yaxley. Snape. You are very nearly late. Severus—here; Yaxley, beside Dolohov.” His professor sat across from his cousin, and Draco attempted eye contact—Snape knew the prisoner as well, he had to do something, say _something_ —but his face was as impassive as the woman’s opposite him, though the boy saw their eyes meet for a fraction of a second. “So?”

“My Lord,” the dark-haired man began, voice low and toneless, “the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday, at nightfall.”

“Saturday, at nightfall.” He smiled coldly.“Good. Very good. And this information comes…?”

“From the source we discussed, My Lord.”

“My Lord,” Yaxley cut, leaning forwards to make himself visible between Dolohov’s silhouette and a larger one. “I heard differently.”

The nausea Draco had been feeling intensified so suddenly that he actually did vomit, though he managed to swallow it back down without showing much reaction. He was suddenly cold, and felt sweat beading at his hairline. Greyback was at the table. Greyback was at the table. _Greyback_ was _at the table_ , only a few bodies away from him, and he was _never_ at the table, and he was _looking_ at him and _leering_ he was _leering_ and he’d forgotten how _big_ he was and his nails and how his teeth were almost sharp and he could see them because he was _looking_ and _leering_ and—

As if having intuited her son’s state, Narcissa found his hand under the table and covered it with her own. Her eyes were uncharacteristically steely, though when he chanced a look at her they were focused straight ahead. He dug his nails into her wrist, not caring if he hurt her, desperate only for _something_ warm and comforting to keep him from screaming out loud. The last sane part of him knew that screaming would be his death warrant, and despite what he had told CJ just minutes ago, he did not quite want to die.

He had numbed out completely while the others talked politics, consumed by trying not to be sick or cry out, and jumped when the not-man at the table’s head addressed his father, seated at his mother’s other side.

“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.”

Narcissa’s other hand went to her husband’s. He now looked every inch as sick as his son. His father’s last defense was taken, and the Death Eaters began to speak of other matters, and Draco hid away in his own mind again as they ridiculed his family. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen_ , he thought, and hated the arrogance he’d had only a year ago.

“Will you babysit the cubs?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out before he shut it tight again. Greyback laughed the hardest, and winked at him. CJ’s eyelids twitched for just a moment, and he saw a tiny movement in her throat. So—she was still human after all.

“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?”

The woman suspended over the table was, in fact, familiar to him—if barely. She screamed for a moment before it was cut off, and a flicker of—revulsion? Pity?—sparked for an instant in Severus’s eyes. He said only, with perfect calm, “Ah, yes.”

“And you, Draco?”

He shook his head hard, unable to look back up at the body.

“But you would not have taken her classes. For those of you who do not know, we are joined tonight by Charity Burbage, who until recently taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.“ He continued, and Draco closed his eyes for a few luxurious seconds. He wanted to curl up in a ball in bed for the rest of his miserable life. “Last week, Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of mud bloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance.” Draco chanced a glance at his cousin. She looked almost bored, her dark eyes half-shuttered, her arms loosely crossed. “She would have us all mate with Muggles—or, no doubt, werewolves.”

Greyback caught Draco’s eye and grinned.

The woman fell to the table, dead.

“Dinner, Nagini.”

Draco left the room as quickly as he could, bolted to his bedroom, and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He’d just finished emptying his stomach when he felt a door open and close behind him, and he spun around, raising his wand. Greyback.

He grinned, and Draco would have screamed were he able to draw breath. He wanted to scream, he _tried_ to scream, but it wouldn’t come, and the werewolf advanced.

“When the Dark Lord asked if you’d mate with a werewolf,” the man said lazily, unbuttoning his shirt, “I saw you wanted it.”

“No,” he breathed. “Please, no.”

“Shut up.” He was undoing his trousers, again, approaching, again, and Draco hadn’t had a drink in hours and he could not tolerate this. He curled in on himself.

“Please,” he whispered, voice higher than it had been in years. “Please please please please please please—“

Greyback lifted him, turned him, shoved him against the wall by the nape of his neck. Tore his trousers down, rubbed up against him, skin on skin, and Draco started to cry, and—

“Drop him, Fenrir.”

Draco collapsed at his cousin’s voice, and the werewolf spun around. “My Lady? I’ve been permitted to—“

“You were permitted _once_.”

“Our Lord never said—“

“Do you want me to ask Him to specify? Tell Him that you interpreted an order as a favor?” Her wand was leveled at the werewolf’s neck. “I will, if you’re unsure about His directives.”

Greyback snarled, and CJ didn’t flinch. She never flinched, never hid, not like Draco, and the boy scrabbled back into his trousers as the man shouldered past her and she refused to be pushed aside, bruising him with her shoulder.

“You okay, kid? How far did he go?”

Draco clung to her like he had as an infant. She rocked him as though he were, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ps: i hc cj as a pointier tatiana shmaylyuk, and severus as adrien brody if he did massive amounts of heroin and never slept)


	31. 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I say this at the beginning of every chapter, but sorry about the delay! Between the holidays, end-of-year work stuff, and having a burst of inspiration on the main (non-fanfic) thing I'm writing, this ended up taking a backseat. Here we go, though! This is a little more than halfway through. 
> 
> Hoping 2021 is better than 2020 for all of us......

_So Tonks got her man after all_ , CJ thought, raising one hand in a mock-salute as she entered the room. Moody nodded at her, in as close as he’d ever get to an apology, and Kingsley raised a hand. Tonks, one hand resting on the shoulder of the man at her right, beamed. “Wotcher, CJ.” The rest of the room looked shocked. One of the Weasley boys drew his wand;Molly gasped.

“Settle down, ladies,” said the newcomer, settling into a chair next to her cousin and summoning one of the bottles of wine on the table. She performed the same little vanishing charm on the cork as she had years ago at the Death Eater meeting, and took a deep swig. “Severus might be a Judas but I’m still on your side. They know about the plan to move Potter.”

The uproar was unsurprising but comical, and she sat sipping the wine while she waited for the room to quiet. Only the grimy little man in the corner was silent—he looked dazed, anxious. She watched him closer for it. Tonks took advantage of the chaos to elbow CJ and, grinning, hold up one hand to show a small, simple diamond ring.

CJ returned the smile. “I heard, congratulations! Was it, you know…” The woman mimed loading and firing a shotgun.

“What?”

“Muggle thing. Shotgun weddings are when you get married because you’re pregnant, it’s stupid—never mind.”

“No.” She hesitated, then, “I only found out last week.”

“Wait—seriously? You’re—“

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not thinking of keeping it, are you?”

Confusion and offense mixed in the woman’s eyes. “Actually, I am! What, you don’t think I’m a fit—“

“Nothing to do with _you_ , just—“

“You think werewolves shouldn’t—“

“Don’t be stupid. We’re at war! You’re on the front lines! And you’re going to drop a new person into this, this hellscape? What if the Death Eaters win? What if one of you’s killed, or both of you?”

Her face softened, but she turned to face straight ahead. “We’ll figure it out. My parents will help, and I have friends who—“

“Tonks, you’d be a fine mother,” CJ sighed, and the woman turned back to her. “Just… the _timing_! Are you sure? This is only going to get worse until it’s over, and it might get even worse after that. And you two just got married, don’t you want time to… enjoy being together? Do you even have a place together?”

“I know it’s not… ideal. But we want the baby.” She looked at her in an almost pleading way. “I… it’s complicated. But I can’t—we want to keep him. Mum said she’d help.”

“Him?”

“I don’t know. It feels like a him.”

With a slow shake of her head, CJ took another long draught of the wine as the atmosphere in the meeting gradually calmed. “Never understood this biological clock shit. Well, better you than me, I guess.”

Tonks gasped a little laugh. “No kidding. If it were you… well, I’d hope they’d get your nose.”

Forcing a brief smile, CJ looked back up at the others around the table. “Do we want to talk counterattacks or just infight for the next couple hours?”

“How much do they know?” asked the Weasley patriarch.

“Date, time, and they expect you’ll be on brooms.”

“Damn,” muttered Moody.

“What if—“ The small, grimy man sitting slightly apart from the others trailed off.

“No, Mundungus. Go on.”

At Moody’s encouragement, he hesitated, then, “We could… go in pairs. Using polyjuice, so ‘alf of us look like ‘Arry and they don’t know who’s the real one, innit?”

CJ’s lips parted slightly with her sharp intake of breath, and he looked almost apologetically at her. “That’s… a solid fucking idea.”

“It is,” continued Moody slowly, “if anyone knows where to _get_ polyjuice. It takes a month to brew, and we don’t have a month, and since selling it’s illegal…”

“The thing is,” said the spy, “Death Eaters specialize in _illegal_.” She drained the bottle of wine and stood. “Fletcher, you and I can tag-team the potion. You scope out Knockturn, I’ll talk to some people. Now, you work out which half of you are fake Potters, and which are bodyguards. It’s better if I don’t know, since the Dark Lord’s going to want me on the tail. Good luck.” She strode through the door and jumped at her near-collision with a stranger.

“Oh—I’m sorry,” the woman said, taking a step back, but CJ stood numb with shock. Narcissa and Bellatrix hardly looked related, and she had always assumed that the third sister was as different from the two of them as they were from each other—or at least, somewhere around a midpoint. This, though, was her own mother a few pounds heavier, an inch or two shorter, hair just past her shoulders instead of nearly to her waist, and with a mildly surprised gentleness in her face that would never be seen in her sister’s.

Eyes narrowing in a confusion that turned suddenly to shock equalling her niece’s, the woman spoke. “You must be…”

“CJ Black.” Instinctively, she extended a hand, and the woman took it.

“Dora mentioned you a while ago. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Blood traitor or not, those childhood pureblood etiquette classes stuck. Draco was the same, though he had leaned into them more than CJ suspected her aunt had. “And you, Andromeda.”

The women stood facing each other, an arm’s length apart, in stunned silence for several long seconds.

“You look more like my mother than I thought,” she said finally.

“I get a lot of that.”

“Before Azkaban, obviously. She’s different now.” The outer corners of the woman’s eyes creased, and CJ flinched internally. It was the same as with Narcissa. They had all been sisters together, children, hadn’t they, before the infamous mad Black streak got its claws in too deep. “I know you don’t really talk to…”

“It’s alright.” Andromeda offered up the same small, strained smile that her younger sister so often wore these days. It looked different on her darker eyes and fuller features, but for the first time CJ saw something of Narcissa in her, and warmed towards the woman. She hated how much her guard had risen at the sight of her, at the familiarity—she’d seen Dumbledore’s face when she’d slammed into his office with the haircut her father wore as a teen,the same sharp, hard eyes and jaw and the same casual arrogance in her stance, and it _burned_ —but the more distance she could put between her aunt and her mother, the better. “We haven’t talked in… in a long time. Obviously, my sisters and I aren’t close.”

“Neither are my mother and I.”

“Well.” Again, Narcissa’s tight smile. “We have something in common, then.”

“More than that, I think.” She tilted her head slightly to the side and smirked. “We’re both dirty little blood traitors from lunatic families, aren’t we?”

The smile softened a fraction, and though the features were the same, CJ had never seen such gentleness on her mother’s face. “You’re lucky,” the woman sighed. “Your mother’s on a wanted poster every other block in London, but you favor your father. Almost no one knows who he was before he… you know. And almost no one remembers Tom Riddle. You don’t get the stares.”

“You could dye your hair. Or break your nose.”

She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“I was kidding.” She paused. “Tonks just told me about…”  
“Oh.”

“You know?”

“I know.” She looked a little exasperated, but smiled. “She’s never done anything by halves, that one.”

“And you’re… Okay with it?”

“Of course I’d rather it not have happened, but if it had to…”

“Now?”

“Well, she’s married.”

“I don’t mean that, I mean—during a war?” Hesitating, she continued, “With her an auror and Lupin…”

“It’s definitely not ideal.” Her smile widened a little, and her eyes went distant and cloudy. “But I’m glad I’ll get to see a grandchild before this is over. So’s Ted, and so are Lyall and Mary—Remus’s parents. And she’s always wanted a baby.”

You won’t get to see a grandchild if they’re both killed before he’s born, she thought brutally, but bit her tongue. “Well—keep her safe, then, will you? As much as you can.”

The expression that had just relaxed so tightened again. “I’ll try.”

CJ forced a smile in return. “And—congratulations, I guess.”

“Thank you.” She turned to leave, but—“Carina? Just a moment—“ and she turned back towards her aunt. “I. Heard about…. Severus. Is he really… I thought—well, we all thought, Dumbledore always said…”

“I thought so too.”

When she’d left the house in the country for the one on the gritty street Spinner’s End, she paced in tight ellipses around the couch while Severus reclined on it, half-listening, a cigarette between his lips, a glass of wine in one hand and a book propped open in the other. “—and everyone’s being complete idiots! I mean, if it were me, I’d abort, no question—he’s a werewolf, she’s an auror—can’t have timed it worse!”

“Well, you’d abort regardless, wouldn’t you? You don’t want kids.”

“That’s not my point. You think they’re being stupid, don’t you?”

“Course I think they’re being stupid. What did they say at the meeting?”

“She can’t be more than two months along, and everyone’s already all—“

“Not about the bloody fetus, about the Order.”

“Oh. Well, Fletcher had a coherent thought for once. They’re going to give half of them Polyjuice to—“

“Fletcher’s never had a coherent thought in his life, I’ve Imperiused him.” Looking up, he met her eyes for the first time since she’d apparated onto his coffee table. “For that matter, I’m meeting him undercover tomorrow to sell it to him. What else did they say?”

“Of course you did.” She sat down on the arm of the sofa by his head and rested a hand on his shoulder. “In that case, you didn’t miss much. Mostly Alastor yelling about how you’re a Judas and I’m not to be trusted.” Stretching her back with a soft pop, she continued, “They’re working out who’s going as Potter doubles and who’s going as escorts, and then breaking.”

“Mm.”

“I can’t believe she’s pregnant.”

“It’ll slow her down,” he agreed. “Wonder if the kid’s going to be a werewolf.”

“Good question. Bit unprecedented for them to reproduce, isn’t it?”

“Not with other werewolves.”

“Surprised Greyback hasn’t knocked anyone up,” she muttered bitterly.

“Probably has, once or twice, but he likes them too young. Fucking pervert. Frankly, I’m surprised he went for Draco.”

“Yeah, well.”CJ sighed, letting her head fall forwards. “I’m really worried about him. Especially now that Greyback’s got the run of the manor.”

“Doing as well as expected?”

“Worse. Between that and the Dumbledore situation…”

“I don’t know what he thought was going to happen, joining up with the Death Eaters and—“

Voice suddenly sharp, she interrupted, “You’re not blaming him, are you?”

“Not for Greyback. But he should’ve known what he was getting into.”

“Did you?”

He snapped the book shut. “I didn’t have family involved. I couldn’t have—“

“You knew Lucius, though, and Steve, and Aloysius. They must’ve talked.”

“And you know them now. Half of what they say is just talk. Draco was— _you_ must’ve told him what he was—“

“I was gone,” she replied, voice low and flat. “I fucked off to the States and left him with—“

“Don’t blame him if you don’t want to, but it’s more his own fault than yours. He’s not stupid, and he’s not your responsibility.”

“Who’s is he, then?”

“Narcissa’s? Lucius’s? He’s hardly alone in the world, Carina, he’s got plenty of resources, if he hadn’t wanted to he should’ve used his brain for a _second_.”

“What’s going on?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You haven’t called me _Carina_ in ages. What’s bothering you?”

Jaw tight, he shook his head, took a long drag off his cigarette, drained the glass of wine, and reopened the book. She slipped off the arm of the couch to sit next to him, her waist pressed against his shoulder, and he sat up, rigid and determinedly staring at the page.

“C’mon, Rus. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

His slow inhale and sharp huff out was enough of an answer.

“That.”

“Next time you want to show up here, knock, alright? Don’t just apparate in.”

“You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“Yes, well,” he retorted, voice icy, “I’ve never been on so many shit lists before. While you’ve been busy with _Draco_ , I—“

“Are you jealous?”

“What? He’s your cousin, of course I’m not, I—“

“ _Severus_ ,” she sighed, a hint of not-quite-mirth in her voice. “I know you’ve got it hard too, I know you’re under more pressure than he is. You’re just not going to have a nervous breakdown and fuck the whole war because of it. You’re a lot stronger, and smarter, and more competent, and—”

“Could hardly be less compet—“

“You can’t have expected him to kill Dumbledore. He’s never even seen a body.”

“It doesn’t mean _I_ had to!” He closed the book again and slammed it down next to him. “For the first time in my _life_ , I had respect, I had _friends_ , and that—that manipulative old _bastard_ made me throw it away for—for some _greater good_ that hardly—“ He trailed off at her expression. “I don’t want pity.”

“What do you want? From me, I mean. That I can do.”

“Nothing. It’s not about you, Carina. Not everything’s about you.”

“I know that. But as your girlfriend—sorry, _colleague_ —“ she smirked, tucked his hair behind one ear, slumped a little when he flinched away, “I want to make things easier. Even if it’s not about me.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” Then, under his breath, “All you talk about is _poor Draco_ , and the _gossip_ at the Order, and…”

“Alright, I’ll shut up about that, then,” she said brightly. “What would you rather talk about? I’ve never gotten the impression you particularly enjoy talking about _yourself._ ”

“Do we have to talk about _people_? I just bloody hate people.”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“So talk about research, not case reports.”

She laughed. “Got it. Well—ask me about the limbic system.”

In return, he allowed himself a wry little smirk, and summoned the half-empty bottle of wine and another glass from the kitchen. “Tell me about your amygdala, Rina.”


	32. 32

Still dizzy from altitude and adrenaline and apparation, arms burning and pulses pounding in their ears, the Death Eaters stumbled into the manor, windswept and, in many cases, bloody. The Boy Who Couldn’t Be Fucking Killed had evaded them yet again, and this time—so close—Voldemort was _livid_. He ranted and paced and tortured half of them stupid, Lucius taking the brunt of it for the failure of his wand and Draco for shooting ahead of them on his Nimbus 01 and then panicking and swerving off course when he found himself surrounded by aurors with no backup in sight. Severus stood frozen to the side, flanked by Yaxley and Mulciber; Bellatrix purred and cajoled, trying to calm her Lord; CJ, mask pushed halfway up over her hair, very pale but otherwise unmoving, breathed out a constant stream of parseltongue. Neither woman seemed to have an impact, and finally, standing over a half-dozen convulsing bodies, the Dark Lord whispered, “Leave.”

No one on steady legs hesitated to obey.

When Severus returned to his house, he allowed himself the tiny catharsis of a silencing charm and a long, throaty scream, and snatched a bottle of firewhiskey from the freezer. He drank deeply, hating the burn, hating himself, not bothering even to pour it into a glass, and didn’t turn around at the flash of green light from behind him. Either it was CJ, who he couldn’t tell if he wanted to see, or it was an auror here to arrest him, which was no more than he deserved. Dumbledore had asked for it, _begged_ even, talked him into it over a year of slow decay. Alastor Moody, though—Alastor Moody had been, if not exactly healthy, vigorous. Moody had years, decades even, and plans, and—and the Weasley boy was just that, just a _kid_ , barely even of age, and he’d never been a good flier so why did he think he could cast something as precise as Sectumsempra with one hand white-knuckled on a broomstick?

“Severus? Severus…”

“Don’t.”

“Shh. Shh, shh.” CJ’s hand came to rest, too gently, on his back. His eyes burned as badly as his throat now.

“You can’t—I’m not— _fuck_!” Severus slammed his hands down on the table. “Get out.” CJ crossed her arms, and for a moment he wanted to hit her. “ _GET OUT!_ ”

“Not when you’re like this.”  
Teeth clenched so hard that he felt a tiny muscle by his left ear tear, he lunged to seize her arm and shove her through the door, but she was faster. Before he could react she twisted his arm behind his back and pinned him against the wall. She was within an inch of his height, and though he had grown up angry and scrappy and bruised, she was well-trained and well-nourished in a way he’d never been, and the firewhiskey had just gone to his head. He wrestled under her grip to no avail.  
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Her voice had gone flat, very flat, and cold, and familiar in a way he never wanted to associate with her. “I’m not going to let you hurt yourself. But you’re not going to fight me, Rus. You don’t want to fight me.”

“This is my house,” he snarled, quiet now but no less livid. “Get—the fuck—out—of my house.”

“No. I’m going to stun you if you don’t start being an adult.”

He writhed, and her body pressed closer to his, forcing the sharp bones of his hips and face painfully into the wall. Then he managed to turn, and he grabbed her, and then she was pinned under him now, and he sank his teeth into her neck, her shoulder, frantic, desperate, _depraved_ , clumsy and scrambling with need.

“Not when you’re like this.” Her voice was hoarse but firm, and her knuckles scraped his sternum hard, forcing him back. “Calm down. Shh, Severus. Shh. _Shh._ ”

“I want—I—I—fuck!“

“I know. Shh. Calm down. We can, we can, but not when you’re like this.”

The tension in his chest felt nuclear, and when she hugged him, he had to fight down more screams of… of what? Of rage, lust, grief, rage, fear, hatred, _grief, rage_ —his jaw ached, his neck ached, his _everything_ ached, and he clung to her, wanting to share the pain, needing someone else to bear it for it was too much for one man. Far too much for one man.

“I know,” she repeated, her breath soft against the shell of his ear. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know. Who were you aiming for?”

“Dolohov.”  
“Mm. But you hit the kid.”

“And then—then—Moody. I was going to miss, but he swerved, and—and Dumbledore. And—“

“Severus, shh. Shh. You didn’t mean—“

“I can’t talk, not now.” He kissed her, hungry, greedy, desperate, knowing he was clumsy, hating himself and wanting her more for it. “Please. Just.”

“Okay,” she murmured. “Okay. We don’t have to talk now.” A hand pressed to the small of his back, she led him to bed. Her voice was so soft and low, her pupils huge and her eyes half-closed, and in answer he turned and claimed her mouth with his. She pulled him on top of her, ran a hand up his back underneath his shirt, then pulled it over his head and twisted her fingers into his hair. Their kisses were adolescent in their roughness and sloppiness, all tongues thrusting into mouths, noses bumping, teeth bumping. She bit his lower lip, and he bit hers, he groped her breasts and she squeezed his arse. She scraped his skin with her teeth and breathed into his ear, “Fuck me, Severus.”

He rolled, threw her onto her back, shoved her legs apart, and buried himself in her with something between roar and whimper. She gasped and panted and dragged her nails down his back, and he pumped hard and fast, wanting to peak buried to the hilt in her, wanting to fuck her until she knew he could be just as ferocious as anyone, that he was not weak and no coward. He felt her nails sting over the scars on his back as she shuddered under and around him. He could hear himself producing loud, animalistic grunts with every thrust, sounds that would normally have mortified him to hear, let alone make, but that were in that instant impossible to restrain _._ Fingers twisting the sheets so tightly one corner came undone, he finally collapsed on top of her with a sound that was almost a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Rus, it’s okay. Shh, come here, come here. It’s okay.”

Back and chest heaving, he lay there for several long, exquisite seconds, feeling himself drain into her. Eyes closed, nose pressed into her hair, he breathed in the smell of her sweat and perfume, of their sex, and the adrenaline that had sustained him broke with his release. Loathing himself, he buried his face in her neck.

“You shouldn’t want me.”

“I do, though.”

“I’m a murderer.”

“So am I.”

“I’m a monster. I’m—I hate—“

“Shh.” She tightened her arms around him, outlined the ridge of his spine with her fingertips.

“I don’t deserve—“

“Shh.”

“After the war, after I’ve done what I have to, I’ll kill myself.”

“Oh, Severus.” She sighed, kissed his temple, petted his hair and shoulders.

“Maybe I’ll let His snake bite me after all, fuck the antidote.”

“If I told you I want you alive, would it change things?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His voice caught, and he dug his nails hard into her waist. “Stop.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Stop.” Spikes of pain shot along his jaw. “Stop. I don’t want—I can’t—I’m a—“

“You’re what? A spy? A killer? You’re nothing that I’m not.”

“It’s different.”

“How? If it’s so horrible and unforgivable in you, why not me?”

“How do you stand me?“

“Stand you?” She sighed. “I more than stand you. You should know by now—I care about you. I like you.”

“You…”

Gently prying his fingers loose and squeezing his hand, even as he began to protest, she shut him up with her mouth on his and slowly his body softened against her. He pulled away, so gentle now, so hesitant.

“Why?”

“Why? You’re brilliant, you’re loyal, you’re interesting, you make me feel like it’s worth staying alive. I know it’s all been fast, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re at war, so…”

“But…”

How did she always render him so speechless? Him, Severus Snape, the terror of Hogwarts, never without his sharp silver tongue, never a crack in the intimidating, bitter exterior, and there was one woman who slipped through the walls like a damned wooden horse. There had been one like that before, too, and he had thought there never would be again after he lost her. Lost her and it was all his fault, wasn’t it? God, but the way CJ stroked his hair made him feel safer than he ever had in his life, as though he was not yet damned, as though there was still hope for his soul. Her nails grazed his scalp, light and gentle, and he fucking _melted_ for her. Her hands were so light, her touch didn’t hurt—it even felt _good_. He had so rarely felt good and, for some reason, it always made his throat tighten and his eyes burn in a way that no torture ever had.

“It’s alright, you know,” she murmured, lips grazing his earlobe, his jaw, in the way that always made him shiver. “I know it’s fucking hard, but it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have—“

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I don’t want you alone. I’m staying tonight.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Try. I’m here.” Ceding defeat, he lay back down and lit a cigarette, eyes fixed numbly on the ceiling so she wouldn’t see how bright they were. CJ drew the blanket over them both and curled protectively around him, one arm over his abdomen and her nose against his cheek. “There. Not so bad, right?” He didn’t answer, and felt more than heard her sigh. “I know. I can feel it coming off you. You’re exhausted.”

“I’m not weak. I’m not a—“

“I don’t think you are, but you’ve been burning the candle at both ends for how long?”

He shook his head slowly,rolled onto his side and ducked his head under her chin. At times he felt so desperate for painless physical contact that it felt like starvation. Part of him was ashamed—he was a grown man, he shouldn’t be clinging to her like this—but he could not be close enough to her. Even inside her wasn’t close enough. “I’m sorry,”he repeated.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

She tightened her arms around him, kissed the top of his head, and, for once, said nothing.


	33. 33

“Eugh, what happened to you, Snivellus? You look even worse than usual!”

They should have realized that there were more injuries than the bruises on his face and neck. He sat huddled against the window, head down, unwashed hair falling into his face, and he barely acknowledged their presence. For once, there was no fight in him.

“Maybe we should…” began the slightest of the boys standing in the door to the train compartment, but the other three ignored him.

“Black asked you a question. You should answer when you’re addressed by your superiors, scum.”

Two of the boys laughed. The fourth bit his lip, looking nervously over his shoulder.

“We’re talking to you.”

The wand suddenly jabbed into his side made him gasp in pain and recoil.

“Leave,” he said, in a toneless voice barely more than a whisper. “Just leave.”

“You’re no fun. Seriously, Snivelly, who kicked your ass? I want to buy him a drink. Or her?”

 _I am so tired,_ he thought. It had been a little less than a week since he’d found his mother on the bathroom floor, vomit on her face and the toilet seat, her skin unnaturally, uncannily cold. Even as he’d tried, with every magic and muggle way he knew, to resuscitate her, he’d known she was dead. _I am so fucking tired._ “Not today. Please.”

The _please_ was what did it. The tallest of his aggressors stepped back, cocking his head in an almost canine way. “Please? Look like he’s finally learnt some manners, doesn’t it, Potter.”

Choosing between the funeral and making the train to school had been shamefully easy. Home was hell, school was hell, but the latter hell had food and hot water and a mediwitch who used healing spells and potions that his mother denied knowing. The latter hell had things he was good at and places where the demons couldn’t reach. MacNair and Avery’s spat insults were nothing, uncreative and generic—after a certain number of times, the sting of _mudblood_ faded until he hardly registered it as a slur. He hated his father more than they did. The man was dirty for more reasons than being a muggle.

Briefly, the boy considered fighting, but four to one—and despite one’s incompetence and one’s reluctance, it would be four to one by the end—was a difficult fight even at the best of times, and with missing teeth and cracked ribs and a clavicle that he could see through the skin was broken in at least one place, he didn’t stand a chance.

“Just fuck off.”

“Ah, and there they go. You know, it’s a pity. Personally, I’m proud to call myself a blood traitor, but… your mother didn’t really have an _ideology_ , did she? Just let anyone get into her—“

He was on his feet and his wand was drawn, and then he was reeling with pain, and then he was on his knees, anger and shame and grief threatening to drown him. Kneeling, he was weak; kneeling, he was showing pain; but Christ on a damn cross, four days since she died and his piss that morning was still tinted pink with blood.

The advantage of his position was that, despite what he would have said, the boys were not all idiots. By the start of their fifth year as classmates, they knew that there wasn’t much that would bring Severus to his knees, and their few seconds’ hesitation gave the small one with the prefect’s badge the courage he needed. “Come on, guys,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at their opponent. None moved to leave, but none attacked as, eyes tightly shut and teeth bared, he stood shakily and returned to his seat.

“What’s going on? I swear, if you four are—oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, morning, Evans. We were just checking up on—“

“Checking up on? Get out of here or I’ll call McGonagall.” The redhead’s hands were planted firmly on her hips, and her glare had an effect on the foursome that little else did.

“Alright, alright. See you around.”

She gave a sarcastic, cutesy little wave, ran a hand through her long hair, then turned toward the boy and stifled a scream. Every year, every fucking year, every _day_ in the summer, and she still treated every fight with his father like a Soviet missile launch. “What happened, Sev? If it was the Marauders—“

“It wasn’t. And don’t call them that. Fucking stupid.”

Sliding the door shut behind her, she sat down opposite him, bright green eyes round and bright with concern. “Your father?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His head fell into his hands, calloused palms burning swollen eyelids.

“Doesn’t—of course it—!”

“Please, Lily. Please don’t.”

“You’re really hurt, aren’t you? Should I get—“

“I’ll see Pomfrey when we get to school.”

“How long have you—oh my God, your neck! Did he try to _strangle_ you?”

“Yes, alright? And it wasn’t the first time or the worst, so please, _please_ , just leave it. It doesn’t matter.”

He knew she was positively bursting with ill-disguised pity, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. If he met her gaze, he knew he would crack. The one good piece of advice his father had ever give in him rang in his ears; _if you show them the knife in your guts, they’ll twist it_. He hadn’t cried for Eileen yet, and he sure as hell wouldn’t embarrass himself like that in front of the only person who’d ever given a damn if he lived or died. Lily was silent, but he heard the rustle of her robes shifting, felt her hand on his knee. “Sev, I’m sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you… I mean, aside from that—are you okay? You seem…”

“‘M fine.”

“You don’t sound—“

“Please. _Please_. Merlin, just leave it.” He looked up, forcing a tight-lipped smile that made her already wide eyes widen further, eyebrows contracting in apparent horror. He let his head fall back into his hands. “Tell me ‘bout your summer. Petunia still seeing that… Vernon, or whatever his name is?”

“Yes, and he’s awful. Did you know he wanted to be an accountant as a kid? What kind of child wants to be an _accountant_? I don’t know what she sees in him.”

“Money,” said Severus sagely.

“Probably.I could never. I’d rather marry someone broke, who I loved, than someone rich and _boring_ and _rude_ and…”

Briefly, he registered that her willingness to marry someone broke would have stirred something in him a few months ago. Perhaps even a few weeks ago. He felt nothing for her now, though, except gratitude that as long as she sat across from him Potter and his entourage wouldn’t start a fight, and that she was talking about inane, pointless, middle-class things that distracted him from the memory of stiff limbs and cooling skin.

_“Did you do this, boy? Fuckin’ did you?”_

_“No—no, I swear I just found her like—“_

_“Why can’t you magic her back, then? Why didn’t you do nothing?”_

_“I can’t, it’s too late, I—“_

_“Bullshit!” the man had roared, and moving faster than someone that drunk should have been able to, seized his son by the hair and slammed him so hard into the mirror that it cracked. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You useless—worthless little shite! This is all your fucking fault! She wouldn’t’ve killed herself if you weren’t such a freak! You’re a goddamn—”_

He had struggled, feral, half-blind with blood dripping into his eyes from a cut on his hairline, but he was fifteen and malnourished and his father was forty and huge. For the first time, he had lied outright to Lily. He’d dismissed before, minimized, avoided, but never lied. When Tobias had knelt on his son’s sternum and put his hands around his throat and squeezed until the boy saw white and the room tilted, it had been the first time since he was a small child that Severus had sincerely feared death at the man’s hands. He’d let go, an eon later, perhaps realizing that a suicide was one thing, but a murder-suicide another entirely, but the beating had not ended until the teenager lay in smears of his own blood, drifting in and out of consciousness until he’d gathered the strength to crawl, because he couldn’t quite stand, to the relative safety of his bed, where he finally collapsed.

The man had broken bones before, but never so many, and lying there half in shock, he pondered the fact that he had _felt_ his wrist break but _heard_ his collarbone. The police came, and Tobias said that his son was at work and his wife was a drug addict, and they took the body and probably didn’t even do a fucking autopsy, did they? She was hardly the first housewife in Cokeworth to chase a bottle of valium with a handle of vodka. Hardly even mattered whether she’d intended to die or just…

“—went to Paris for a few days, which was lovely, though a bit boring, but—Sev?”

In that moment he despised her. It was more than the jealousy he’d felt in hot, guilty flashes throughout his time as her friend; it was hatred. How dare she have such a petty, vapid, pointless fucking life when people were killing themselves and beating their kids and spending the grocery money on pills and booze for the dozenth week in a row? How _dare_ she have a _lovely_ time in _Paris_ with her _boring_ sister and her sister’s _boring_ boyfriend and her _boring_ parents who never screamed at each other or smashed things or couldn’t pay for heat _again_ because they got fired _again_ for—how _dare she_!?

“I’m listening. Sorry.”

“If you want to talk…”

“ _Fucking hell_ , Lily, I _said_ I don’t!” He slammed his hand down on the seat next to him, sending a jolt of pain up his arm from his fractured wrist. “I don’t need your pity or your charity or—I’m not some _project_ for you to—Jesus!”

“Excuse me?” That horrible, polite coldness in her voice made him want to hit her, and that made him feel like his father, and that made him want to be like his mother and just _die_.

“I—I’m…”

“I know you’re hurt, but you won’t let me help you, so you hardly get to bite my head off for trying to be friends. I swear, every year you hang out with Mulciber and that lot you get nastier. Do you even still _want_ to be friends?”

He gritted his teeth, biting back the tirade he wanted to unleash on her. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just… you’re right. Course I still want to be friends, just… Been a long summer, is all.”

“I know, but…” She sighed. “How are your parents?”

Without knowing entirely why, he lied again. “Same as ever.”

“No luck getting your mum to rehab?”

He shook his head. It made him feel like a meat hook had been shoved through his eye and out the nape of his neck.

“Pity. Wish things were better for you.”

“Me too,” he muttered bitterly, hoping she hadn’t noticed how husky his voice had gone, how hard he was swallowing.

“D’you want me to keep talking, or…?”

“If you want.”

“We can just sit, if you’d rather.”

Slowly, so as not to hurt his head, he nodded. She gave his knee another light squeeze and settled back in her seat with a comfortable yawn, gazing out the window. Neither spoke again until they exited the train and Severus recoiled with a sharp intake of breath.

“What?”

“What the fuck are—when have there been—those…” He looked at her calm, confused face, looked at the lack of reactions from those around him, and felt a cold weight sink in his chest. He was losing his mind. “Never… never mind.”

Now her expression was wary, almost frightened. “Are you… seeing something?”

“No. I thought I—no.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Must be that.” He hesitated, then, cautiously, “I thought… for a second… there was something pulling the carriages. Just a shadow, though. Didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.”

“Must’ve been one of those trees. Bit spooky in the dark, aren’t they?”

“Aye,” he murmured, watching the things that were not quite horses shift in their neat line. “Spooky.”

Instead of following Lily to the feast when the carriages finally halted, he slunk to the hospital wing. “Fighting again, Snape?” sighed the matron.

“Sorry.” Better to have her think he was as much a delinquent in the muggle world as the wizarding than to have her start putting her nose too far into his family life.

“When was this?”

“Few days ago.” He winced as she ran the diagnostic spells, tutted over his wrist and face. “Should see the other guy.”

“What, is he dead?” She smiled at him, then shook her head. “Unless there’s a troll problem in Yorkshire that I don’t know about, you’re not getting these from fighting.”

“Big bloke. Miner or summat.”

The pity in her eyes made him close his own. “There are resources, you know. I can talk to—“

“Headmaster won’t do anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though. I’ve seen you in here enough that I know you’re a smart lad. You could accomplish a lot, if you had somewhere safe to go over the holidays. Here, drink this, it’ll grow those teeth back.”

Obediently downing the Skele-gro, he grimaced. “It really doesn’t matter. Don’t have the money for a degree or anything, anyway.”

“What are you planning to do? After school? I’d be shocked if you don’t get all Os on your tests this year.”

“Dunno.”  
“You’ve got potential. Think about it. There are scholarships, you know. Any blood in your urine?”

“Er—yes.”

“How much?”

“Dunno. Not a ton.”

“Any muscle cramps in your back? Spasms?”

“Some.”

“Bruised kidney, I suspect. Drink this.”

“For blood pressure?”

“Very good.” She took the vial back when he drained it, and commented offhandedly, “Horace says you’re very gifted at potions.”

“Really?” He looked up, eyes bright in spite of himself. “What else did he say?”

“That you don’t follow the rules.” She smiled at him.

He returned it, looking almost as though he didn’t know how. There was a beat of silence, then, “If… If I had the money I’d like to be a healer.” Prematurely defensive, he added, “I’m not squeamish, I don’t mind blood. And I know a fair bit about spellwriting, and—“

“I think you could be a great healer.”

His tense, skinny shoulders slumped with relief, then tightened again as she began to apply a salve to the bruises. “You think?”

“I do. Shirt off, let me see your back.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“When you’re a healer, if you have a patient with a bruised kidney, cracked ribs, and a clavicle snapped like a matchstick, would you want to see?”

With a reluctant sigh, he took it off. “Don’t say anything.”

“Oh, Severus.”

He already knew his back looked bad, knew it would be an even worse mess of welts and bruises than it was every first of September, but the way she said his name was the first thing in days that brought tears to his eyes. He felt his lower lip twitch and bit it hard. “It’s fine.”

“What was this? A belt?”

“Switch.”

“Merlin, Severus. This isn’t right.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Can you just put some of that anodynon on it so I can go?”

Silently, she began to rub the salve onto his back. The relief was so instantaneous and complete that he actually slumped forward on the bed. Finally, Pomfrey spoke again. “They’re going to scar, you know.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but—“

“You think anyone’s ever going to see them, ‘sides you?”

“Of course I do. You’re only fifteen, there’s plenty of time to find a girlfriend and—“

His laugh came out as a sharp, bitter huff. “Not like any girl would look at me.”

“Just take better care of yourself. Stand up straight, wash your hair more, try to let your guard down. You’re not a bad-looking young man, you just have these walls up. That’s what puts people off, not…”

“Not the _fact_ that I’m a scrawny, greasy, huge-nosed freak that’ll never be more’n a bit of rough to anyone? If I’m lucky enough for that?”

Her hand paused on his back. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Pardon my French, but your father is a bastard, and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

The faint, tiny smile flickered again. “If it were just him I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Who else?”

“Who d’you think?”

“Those Gryffindor kids?”

“Try the whole house. Most of the Hufflepuffs, since I’m not _nice_ enough for them. Most of the Ravenclaws, since I don’t just walk around with my nose in a book, ignoring real life.And half the Slytherins, since I’m, you know, a _filthy half-breed_.”

The mediwitch had to suppress a laugh. Oh, it wasn’t funny, but his impression of Bellatrix Black was so spot-on. “What about the Evans girl? You two were close.”

He fell silent, lowering his head. Part of him wanted to answer; she’s so much better than me I hate myself when I’m around her. I hate her for being born so lucky. I hate her for having everything come so easy. I want her not just to pity me, I want her to notice me, I want her to admire me. I love her. I hate that I love her. I hate that she’s all I have. I hate that I need her, but oh God, oh Merlin, I need her I need her I need. Instead, he said nothing.

“Put your shirt back on. You can still get some dinner. And Snape?”

He looked up, already dressed and halfway out the door. “What?”

A corner of her lip quirked up in a sad smile. “Watch out for those Yorkshire trolls.”

It couldn’t have been more than a few days later that Lily slammed a book down in front of him, making him jump. “Who did you see die?”

“What?”

“Thestrals. Hagrid said.” It was rare that she knew something about the magical world than he didn’t, and triumph shone on her face. “Remember when you saw something pulling the carriage? They’re called thestrals, and you can only see them if you’ve seen someone die.”

“The hell?” he muttered, and began mindlessly to pick at a small burn on his hand.

“Look, there’s a picture. I’d have been frightened too, if I’d seen them and you couldn’t.” She opened to a dog-eared page—Irma Pince would have killed her—and pointed at an artistic representation of the creatures. “Creepy-looking, aren’t they? But who did you see die?”

He was staring at his hands now, and she would not have known he had spoken had his lips not moved. “My mother.”

“What?”

“My mother.” She gasped, and he narrowed his eyes at his fists. “’S fine.”

“It’s not fine! I had no idea! Sev, I’m so, so sorry. What happened? Never mind. You don’t have to say if you…”

“It wasn’t pretty.”

“Did she… you know…”

The word _overdose_ hung horribly between them in the air, and he wanted to explain that it wasn’t like that, she wasn’t just one of the dozens of junkies sprawled on the Spinner’s End sidewalks, she was his _mother_ , she was _Eileen_. “She killed herself, Lily, alright?”

“So you’re just living with your father now? No wonder you—Sev, you’re fifteen, you can’t—“

“There’s a lot I can do you wouldn’t believe.”

“Don’t snap at me, I’m trying to—“

“I didn’t _snap at you_ , I’m just not—“

“—make you feel—“

“—rich enough to be so—“

“—better!“

“—delicate!“

Had he looked up, he would have seen her glaring at him. “I’m sorry about your mum, but you can’t—“

“Stop telling me I can’t do things just because you couldn’t.”

“You’ve been acting weird since we got here. _I’m_ your friend, not those asshole Death Eater wannabes.”

“ _Those assholes_ actually give a damn about me. Besides, they at least don’t flirt with your precious Gryffindor bastard brigade.”

“I don’t _flirt_ with them!”

“Yeah? Tell Potter that. He doesn’t know, and you’re sure as hell not acting like you have a problem with it.”

“That’s unfair! Just because I don’t—“

“If someone I knew treated you how they treat me, I wouldn’t just _watch,_ is what I’m saying.”

“I’m not going to hex them. And they’re only as bad as they are because of how you react. If you just ignored—“

“What, you want me to just roll over and let them—let them stick the knife in deeper, or—? Give it a nice twist? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not _popular_ and _athletic_ and _pretty_ , I can’t just go crying to Dumbledore. I tried that once, first year. You know what he said? Try to be more friendly, Snape. I’m not fucking—“

“I’m not saying Dumbledore’s perfect, but if you’d stop making up weird curses and—and _assaulting_ people—“

“Attacking? _Attacking?_ ” He was on his feet, and they were both shouting now, drawing sideways looks from other students. The librarian was going to show up any moment, but he couldn’t lower his voice. “ _I’m_ attacking _them_? You know what kind of shit they do to me? You know what kind of shit they _threaten_ to do? Every time he sees me Black says he’s going to take me out on the lawn, strip me, and leave me there. You know what they call that if it happens to someone decent-looking? Sexual assault, that’s fucking what, but when it’s _me_ it’s _just a prank, Snivellus, stop being dramatic, it’s_ —“

“I’m not saying what they do is okay! I’m just saying you don’t need to retaliate like—“  
“And if I don’t? What the fuck will happen if I don’t? Maybe when the werewolf kills me someone will take it serio—“

“Jesus Christ, Severus, you’re not still on about your werewolf conspiracy theory! You’re _impossible_ , honestly, why do I bother.”

He had been right, though, hadn’t he? The satisfaction was not worth the freezing terror when the beast lunged at him, huge sharp teeth bared, nor the later knowledge that it didn’t matter whether it had been attempted murder or a prank gone too far—Sirius Black could have killed him, and if he had, the headmaster would have found some way to blame him regardless. To let his favorites, as he seemingly always had and always would, literally get away with murder.

The memory was fresh raw when he woke, though he hadn’t dreamed of it. The room was still dark, the silence and shadow pressing in on him. His hand found CJ’s wrist, and he exhaled a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding when her pulse beat warm and strong under his fingers. She shifted, moved closer to him, and her dark eyes reflected the faint yellow light from the street. 

“You okay?” she murmured.

“Dreamed they killed you.”

“Oh.” She kissed his cheek, rough stubble against her lips. “Well, I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

“I’d die for you. If they tried to. I’d get in the way.”

“Shh, Rus, shh.”

“So much death,” he mumbled.

“Shh. I know.” She kissed him again, squeezed his shoulder, and he rolled back onto his back, pulling her with him so she was nearly on top of him.

“Stay here. Want to know you’re breathing.” She complied, resting a hand on his far shoulder and her head on his chest, one leg tangling between his. “Don’t die. Please don’t go.”

“Don’t you die either.” She had never had much in the way of dreams of romance, of love songs and princesses in castles. It was an affront to her pride and her politics alike to let herself be rescued, protected; protection felt too much like possession, and damned if she would ever be property. His body was so warm under hers, though, his usually bowstring-taut muscles soft and sleepy. Contenting herself with the decision that it was alright if she protected him back, she closed her eyes and shifted comfortably against him before slipping back out of consciousness.

Severus stayed awake for longer, his heart still pounding underneath her cheek. Though he hadn’t taken the Mark until a few months after _the Lupin incident_ , he had decided to less than a day later, when he wrote to Lucius Malfoy in fury and fear and received a reply saying simply, _If you want to protect yourself, you already know what my advice is going to be. Half-blood or not, we don’t tolerate our brothers being treated like this._

Draco had regretted the brand while it was still sore and inflamed on his arm. For all the boy’s selfishness and cowardice, he at least could claim that. It had taken Severus years to appreciate the gravity of what he had done. At first, it seemed so impersonal; the summer when the Dark Lord told him to _show that you can kill, it’s only a muggle,_ well, he was still bruised and spitting mad from the latest fight with his father, and his mother was dead, so she couldn’t complain. A few words, a few silent slashes of his wand, a few spurts of bright arterial blood, and he felt as much relief as horror. The Mark was just a tattoo, like the small, faded one he’d done with needle and marker on his chest as a teenager. When the Dark Lord told him what to brew, he obeyed. Yes, there were poisons, but he didn’t know how they were used, and he didn’t ask. If providing the weapon was murder, then let them arrest every wandmaker in Britain.

Closing his eyes, he saw falling bodies and opened them again. Two kills in as many months, and after over a decade without any it sickened him. The nightmares were frequent, but it had been a very long time since they'd been so bad he was afraid to sleep. Here he was, though, memories of loss and guilt and pain plaguing him in the daytime and his subconscious taking over at night, though he knew the woman asleep on top of him would call it Freudian pseudoscience. If not his subconscious, though, what cruel director wrote murder even into his dreams? 

He held her until the sun rose, fearing that it might not if he let go.


	34. 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dolls! I'm sorry I keep saying this but I've been incredibly burnt out and exhausted these last few weeks. I'm a forensic social worker with a bunch of chronic psychiatric and physical issues and I've just gotten back to in person work after being completely flattened for a week by my second COVID vax, so now I have a two-hour commute as well as working 9 to 5 (what a way to make a living!). I'm applying to doctoral programs as well so I'm too chronically exhausted to write much. Chapter 35 is in progress and should come soon... and the end will come soon after that!
> 
> I'm killing Severus off to be canon-compliant, but I've also got a post-hoc AU going where he lives. Keep reading, loves, I'm ecstatic at any feedback I get and I hope this is good for you! It's been an absolutely miserable year and if this is exorcising any of your ghosts as much as mine I'd be more than relieved. <3

Autumn at Hogwarts passed in a monotony, if there ever had been a monotony so tense. Even with the homeschooled and foreign-educated half- and pureblood students sorted and added to the House rosters, the student body had shrank with the loss of the muggle-borns. Never the most outgoing of the professors, Severus had now lost the former friendships of Minerva and Filius, and resigned to his quarters except for formalities. He was used to being disliked, but now he was _hated_ , and it did start to wear him down. For the first time, he really was alone. Well, no—that wasn’t fair to some of the Slytherins, and he had Carina. Sort of. When he could escape from the school for a few hours, or when she could sneak onto campus. The fact that he was openly weak around her was terrifying for its sweetness.

The resistance, or so they seemed to think of themselves, was a thorn in his side. A pack of students headed by Weasley, Longbottom, and Lovegood, who seemed determined to cause as much trouble as they could. Before—he’d begun to think of his Hogwarts career as _before_ the Revival and _after_ —it would have been irritating enough, but now, with the Carrows wreaking havoc and no doubt reporting back to the Dark Lord on his every misstep, it wasn’t as though he could dock a few house points and get on with it.

“—no idea I’m trying to look out for them, obviously, but you’d think if they’d one brain cell and an _ounce_ of self-preservation between the three of…” he snarled, pacing. CJ sat on his desk, chin in one hand and a soda bottle full of definitely-not-soda in the other.

“Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. Everyone’s always bloody telling me to calm down. I’m calm. I’m calm.”

She looked as though she were going to laugh, but managed to suppress it. “Why’s the sword such a big deal? I mean, of course it looks bad to have students stealing from you, but if it was a counterfeit in the first place…”

“ _Of course it looks bad_? _Of course it—_ Carina, the Carrows are making them torture each other! The more trouble they get into, the worse it—I got away with sending them to Hagrid _this time_ , but if that makes them confident and they pull this kind of shit again—give me a cigarette.”

“You really do care about them, don’t you? The students.” She rummaged around in his desk drawers until she found the pack, and tossed it to him. “You’re going to get lung cancer by fifty at this rate.”

“I’m not going to live to fifty. And I don’t _care about them_ , they’re my responsibility and I don’t want them _dead_ or—”

“The Carrows won’t kill them. Not all of their families are _respectable,_ but they’re all purebloods.”

“—or tortured, or…”

“They’ll survive. They wouldn’t keep pushing if they couldn’t handle it. And if they’re having them torture each other, it won’t be too bad. You know how hard it is to use the cruciatus on someone you care about, or if you’re inexperienced.” She took a swig of her drink and grimaced. “And Amycus is an incompetent idiot. As long as Alecto doesn’t get going—“

“Which she does.”

“Well, that’s a separate issue. But they’ll be okay.”

“I’m not worried about… Weasley, Thomas, Longbottom. I’m worried about the Death Eater kids. Some of them are doing real damage—Travers, Zabini. Goyle especially.”

“Fuck.”

Taking a long drag off his cigarette, Severus nodded. He’d tightly crossed one arm across his ribs, cupping the elbow of the other in his free hand. His shoulders were raised, defensively rounded in a way that only would have been familiar to someone who’d known him as a boy. “Fuck, indeed.”

CJ stood, taking a few unsteady steps to approach him from the side, and gently brushed a hand against his upper arm. Though he didn’t quite flinch, his muscles twitched sharply before he softened under her grip, and she moved her palm to his mid-back, then the nape of his neck, massaging the rigid ball of muscle there in slow squeezes. “There’s only so much you can do, Rus.”

“I know that,” he muttered, teeth clenched around his cigarette, eyes hard and locked on the slowly falling snow outside.

“What else is going on?”

“I don’t know.” He tilted his head towards the portrait behind his desk, where an elderly, bearded man was snoozing in an armchair. “I’m taking orders from a bloody painting. He keeps saying he’ll _tell me when it’s time_.”

“Never trusted him.”

“What other options have I got?”

Leaning her head against his, she sighed. He responded in kind, and they stood close together in the office without speaking for a few long seconds. “So now what?” she asked.

“I’m meant to get the sword—the real one—to Potter. Without him knowing. Shouldn’t be hard, given his double-digit IQ, but...”

“Does that mean you know where he is?”

“Black.”

“What?”

“Not you.” He nodded towards another portrait higher on the wall’s than Dumbledore’s, where a grey-eyed man had been watching them, looking bored. “Phineas Nigellus Black. Former headmaster, alternate portrait conveniently stolen by Hermione Granger, who is traveling with Potter.”

“Ah. So where are they?”

“Good question.” Severus raised a hand toward the portrait.

With a languid yawn, the man replied, “The Forest of Dean.”

“Well, there you are.“ She squeezed his hand tightly. “It’ll be alright. Potter might be an idiot, but he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t have _something_ going for him.”

“Mm.” He snuffed the cigarette out and turned to kiss the woman at his side.

CJ deepened it, then smirked at him. He was barefoot, she was in high-heeled boots; they were close enough in height on equal footing, but now she had a good two inches on him. “Want me to distract you?”

“Please.”

Still rubbing his stiff neck, she kissed him again, arching her body against his, and felt his fingers clench on her waist. He tasted of coffee and nicotine.

“Let’s go. I don’t want all these portraits…”

“Fucking voyeurs,” she agreed, and sat back on the desk to take off her shoes before following Severus to the privacy of his bedroom. “Come here.”

She’d seen his body how many times now, but he still felt a little nauseating shudder of fear every time he undressed in front of her. What if this time were the one she realized he was repulsive? But as always, she pulled him into a tight embrace, warm skin against warm skin, brushed her lips against his neck, his jaw, his mouth. “Gorgeous,” she whispered, almost absently. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Don’t.”

Close together on the bed, they moved slowly, languidly, as though they had all the time in the world to spend together. When he finally pressed into her, muffling a gasp in her neck, it was after an eternity of kissing and stroking that was almost better than the sex itself. Almost. She was on top of him again, nails digging into his chest, her short hair tousled around her flushed face, and in a rush of oxytocin and loneliness he nearly told her he loved her. Instead, he closed his eyes and bit back moans when it ended, tightening his arms around her when she settled half on top of him, nose in his hair.

“Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” But for their breathing, there were a few beats of silence. “I really like you, Severus.”

His chest ached. _Really like_ was nothing to what he felt, but he could guess at what neither of them were able to say. “You’re not bad yourself.”

“High praise,” she laughed, and kissed his hairline where iron streaked ebony. “You’ve gotten really grey in the past couple years.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I like it.”

“Ha.”

“I do.”

He didn’t reply, just turned his head towards her and kissed her shoulder. Why she settled for him he’d never know. “Do you ever think about… if we see the end of this… would you want to—I mean, if you’d—get a place together?”

“Duh.”

“Where?” His voice was suddenly hoarse, thick, and it surprised him.

“Anywhere. Well, anywhere civilized, I refuse to live on a farm. Ideally New York.”

“You love that damned city.”

“Yeah, I do. You’ll get it if you live there.”

“Perhaps. I’ll give it a chance.” _For you_ , he thought, _I’d move to Los bloody Angeles._ “Not Manhattan, though.”

She pretended to pout. “Fair enough. We can get a little brownstone and a dog.”

“No dog. I don’t like dogs. A cat’s alright, though.” At the catch in her breath, he regretted his words, wondering if she’d ever see a cat without remembering her first friend and her first great loss. “Or a dog. Just not a little yappy one.”

“No. We could… get a cat.”

“Shh. Don’t worry, I shouldn’t’ve—“

“No.” She smiled, kissed him again. “I’ve got to move on eventually, haven’t I?”

“It’s—“

“What would you call her? A cat, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it.”

“We’d have to get a black one, so her fur would match all your clothes.” She raised a hand, and a bottle of firewhiskey zoomed into it from down the hall.

Severus watched her throat contract once, twice, thrice, before he shivered and snatched it from her to take a few swallows himself. “Rina,” he murmured, unsure of what he wanted to say. No, not what he wanted—what he was able to say.

“Mm?”

“Rina...”

“Yes?” She laughed a little, nuzzling his cheek, warm and soft and close. He nibbled her lower lip.

“You’re... Thank you. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Probably fine. You’re tough.”

“Probably fine, but less so.”

“Me too, Rus. I’m glad we... have each other. As much as we do.”

“As much as...”

“What are you going to do with the sword, love?”

“I have an idea.”


	35. 35

When Severus woke, it was in CJ’s arms. He shifted closer to her in bed, shook her gently until she woke, mounted her and pumped through the morning’s orgasm. They were both on their sides, facing each other, and when he came inside her she drew him close and kissed him deep.

“Off for Potter?”

“Off for Potter,” he mumbled. She tasted of stale whiskey and cigarettes, but he presumed that so did he.

“Now?”

“Mm-mm. Later. Tonight.”

“Good. Stay with me.”

“Mm.” He curled into her warm embrace. “Carina?”

“If I’ve told you once it’s been a million times. CJ, Rus.”

“CJ.”

“Hm?”

“Will you—do you—if I...”

“Mm. Very clear.”

“Do you... What you said, yesterday, about... living together. Did you mean it?”

“I—“

“If you don’t, I—“

“—Course I—“

“—Understand, it’s just—“

His next syllables were silenced with another kiss. When her tongue parted his lips, his mind went pleasurably blank. “N-Y-C. Cat.”

“Feral rescue cat.”

“Or a little kitten.”

“Everyone wants kittens.”

CJ yawned, snuggling closer to him. “Rescue, alright. No feral. I’ve already got one feral rescue, don’t need more.”

“What, Svetlana?”

“Neither feral nor rescue.” She laughed. “You, stupid.”

“I’m not—“

“You are.”

He grumbled a few vague protests. They made her laugh. Of course, it made sense—of course, Voldemort’s daughter would hardly be intimidated by him—but he felt a little rankled nevertheless. When she sat up in bed, taking a few deep swigs of the half-empty firewhiskey bottle, he shifted with a semi-playful swat at her arm and then immediately felt guilty. She returned it, a gentle blow to the back of his head, and he closed his eyes, resting his head in her lap.

“Severus?”

“Yes?”

CJ paused, toying with a strand of his hair. “You know I... think very highly of you, right?”

“Considering we’re in bed together, I’d hope so.”

She laughed. “Oh, Rus. You’re so naïve sometimes. You want to know how many women I’ve slept with whose names I didn’t even know? There was the Estonian model, and the med student, and the lawyer... and a million others I don’t remember. Sex doesn’t mean as much as—as whatever we’ve got.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Don’t be upset. I might be a slut, but I’m not going to cheat on you.”

“Rina...”

“Shh. I know you’re going to be jealous. Don’t say anything until you’re steady.” With another slug of whiskey, she winced. “You know I hate dark liquor, right?”

“Yet you keep drinking it.”

“I hate being sober more.”

“You probably have the liver of a seventy-year-old man.”

“Probably. Who cares? Like you’ve said, we’re unlikely to both survive this.”

He looked up at her. “What about the kitten?”

“The feral beast, you mean?”

“Whichever.”

“I’m scared of cats. Ever since... you know. My mother. Shadow. Well—not scared, but... They’re so...”

Severus spent the day with his head or hips between CJ’s pale, athletic thighs. Then, it began to snow; then, the sun began to set.

“Off for Potter?” she asked, nose pressed against his carotid artery, just before he rolled off her and began to dress.

“Off for Potter.”

“Good luck, love.”

Every time she called him _love_ it sent a pang through his chest. “I’ll be back. Don’t go.”

“I should be at the Manor. My father’ll be suspicious if I’m gone this long. Meet me there.”

He hesitated, picking up the sword, then, “Alright.”

They kissed, and he disapparated—one of the few perks of headmastership. CJ lay in his bed in the office, trying to untangle her thoughts. Guilt had fallen around her like a crushing weight—the episodes came less often with every year that passed since her mother’s arrest when she was eleven, but rarer did not mean easier. Her cat, her kills, her shock and horror remained as vivid as when she was barely eleven years old. Selfish though it was, she appreciated that Severus’s life had not been easy either. It made him feel more real, more _there_ , not like she was breaching some invisible wall that separated her from _normal people_. She wished he’d stayed. She hadn’t realized how distant and illusory the world seemed until the weight of him pressed her to it. Real. That was what she loved about Severus, though she wouldn’t say it, not yet—he was _real_. For some reason, there were tears in her eyes.

The first thing Severus noticed about his new surroundings was that it wasn’t as cold as he’d expected, and was far more peaceful. The thick layer of snow on the ground crunched softly under his feet when he landed there, but otherwise it was a silent, windless night, and the metal hilt of the sword was warm in his grip, then gone as he eased it through the thin film of ice covering the pond at his feet. He closed his eyes and took a few slow breaths of the crisp winter air. Peace was so scarce these days.

He found Potter sitting outside of a small tent. The enchantments around it must have been the Granger girl’s work; they were too intricate and well-done to be her companions. _Should never have let him see me duel Lockhart_ , he thought wryly. _Didn’t pick up shit after he learned expelliarmus._ It had been a while since he’d last cast a patronus, and it took a few attempts for the deer to stand, luminous and silver in the snow. Ironic, that something so positive bore such excruciating associations. _Fuck, I miss you, Lily_ —the grief would ease but never vanish. Predictably, her son followed the deer to the pool, stood shifting from foot to foot for a long minute, then dove in. Severus turned away, closing his eyes. He’d never been a particularly spiritual man, but sometimes, when the isolation swelled to bursting, he spoke as though his first friend was still there.

“Your son’s an idiot,” he murmured to the starry sky. “I’m sorry, but he is.” He lit a cigarette, bright heat in the cold darkness, and remembered how in their second year she’d asked to try one and coughed so hard he’d thought she was choking. The memory brought an upward twitch to one corner of his mouth and a hot prickle to his eyes. “I’m seeing someone. Well, sort of. She’s a spy too, and…” They’d never meet, would they? The two people he’d been closest to in his life, and he’d never see Lily raise her eyebrows at CJ’s drunken antics or hear how CJ would tease her when she noticed. “I miss you,” he said, voice soft and a fraction shaky. “I miss you, and I’m _so_ sorry. I know I say it every time, but… It’s always been true. I’m sorry for what I said and what I became, and I’m sorry for… Everything. I know you’d say you want me to move on, but I… It feels wrong to. So I’m sorry for moving on, and for taking so long to do it.” He could imagine her, her face teenaged as he’d last seen it, smiling, resting her chin on her fist. _What’s she like?_ she’d ask. “She’s pureblood, but she has a PhD. You’d… I don’t know if you’d like her. I like to think you would. She’s not very nice, but she’s kind. She’s…” He sighed heavily. “Her name’s Carina, but she hates being called that.” The heavy, tight feeling in his chest began to condense. “She’s not afraid of bloody anything. It makes me crazy. Shows up to Death Eater meetings with a t-shirt under her robes, drinks vodka sodas out of a coffee cup the whole time.” Leaning back against the tree, he slid down to a sitting position, vanishing the snow underneath him and drying the ground. “She gives me almost as much shit for smoking as you did, back when you still wanted me alive.” That had been snide and he knew it. “I’m sorry. I’m _tired_. But I’m sorry.” At some sudden shouting and splashing, he glanced over his shoulder towards the pond, and saw Potter being hauled out by another teenager. Relief spilling over him, he was gone with a muffled snap, the only evidence of his presence the snowless patch under the tree.

He reappeared outside the Manor. Every time he was there he noticed another facet that had fallen into, if not disrepair, less-repair. This time it was the fountain. Something had chipped the marble, and instead of the annual ice sculptures made by the frozen flow the basin was empty. The ostentatiousness had always made him sneer, but this time, he found he missed it. He walked further down the path, passing a white peahen fluffed up against the cold, and unlocked the door, slipping through without a sound and locking it again behind him. Praying that the building was empty, he walked lightly up the stairs, hardly daring to breathe until he was in the relative safety of her and Draco’s wing. It was not, however, CJ’s quarters that he entered; he could just barely hear the distinctive hum of the muffliato spell from across the hall.

He knocked once, and the hum subsided.

“Narcissa?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh.” A brief pause, and the door opened. Her smile was strained, but her voice was steady when she asked in a barely audible undertone, “How did it go?”

“As smoothly as could be expected.”

“Good.” Then, in her normal volume, “Draco? It’s just Severus.”

He saw the boy behind her. He looked like hell—his first week back at Hogwarts, it had seemed as though he might improve, but as the war progressed his mental state deteriorated. A faint smell of liquor followed him around the castle, and there were deep hollows around his eyes and under his cheekbones. Any trace of the sassy, cocky boy he had once been was gone. Now, he hardly spoke; now, his hands shook constantly and he flinched at loud noises and sudden movements. He sat huddled against a wall, head down, a glass in his trembling grip. Severus shivered. He had never experienced what happened to Draco, nor had he witnessed it, but he knew enough about Greyback to be confident that it had been brutal, and on top of Dumbledore and the war and the loss of his last safe haven of home, no wonder he was…

“How are you?” he asked awkwardly.

Draco shrugged without looking up, and took a slow sip from the glass.

“That was a stupid question. How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

Reclaiming her seat next to him, CJ put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him tightly against her side. “We were just talking. Is it okay if he stays with us, Draco? We can trust him.”

A beat of silence, then a nod. CJ refilled and drank from her own glass. “Want some cab sauv?”

“Sure.”

She conjured a third glass, filled it, and handed it to him, deliberately stroking her fingers across the back of his hand as he took it. Funny that only a few hours ago they had been in bed together, and now there was such strange and artificial distance. He wanted to take her hand, to feel her warm softness against his skin, but instead sat down in a stained armchair across from them. The Malfoys would never have tolerated stained furniture before the Revival, but times had changed now, hadn’t they.

“You were saying,” she prompted gently.

“Will this ever be over?” Draco was slurring slightly, and Severus saw the faint glint of a tear fall onto his knee.

“It’ll end. I can’t say when, but it’ll end.”

“When? I can’t take another year of… I used to…” He wiped his eyes, took another drink. “I don’t even care anymore. Even if it… I won’t get better. It’s too late.”

Severus felt extremely awkward witnessing the emotional teenager and CJ’s calm, gentle response to it. His instinct was to scold Draco, to tell him to put down the bottle and get it together before he ended up dead or worse, but something in the boy’s defeated posture kept his mouth closed. That, and the knowledge that the woman next to him wouldn’t take well to it. After his one-sided conversation with Lily, he didn’t think he could stand her snapping at him. Besides, what he felt in that moment for the boy was as much empathy as his usual response to such outbursts. Pity at best, and more often contempt, were reflexive—he had suppressed so much for so long, why couldn’t they? Why couldn’t they just shut up and cope with it, when he had been through so much worse? But rape, especially at the hands of someone like Greyback, was beyond his reference. Rodolphus had embedded himself deep enough in CJ’s psyche, and she was far stronger than her cousin, and had said herself that it wasn’t as violent, that she’d never feared for her life at his hands. Powerlessness terrified him, and he could think of no situation in which one could be more powerless.

“You’re past the worst of it,” he told the boy. “Dumbledore, and… after. That’s the worst it gets.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it doesn’t get worse than that.”

“What if He kills my parents?”

“Trust me. It doesn’t get worse than that.”

“He won’t kill your parents, Draco,” CJ interrupted, shooting Severus an odd look—almost grateful, almost annoyed. “He’ll threaten to, but I won’t let Him.”

“ _Let_ Him? Like you can stop Him—“ His voice cracked, and he returned his gaze to his feet.

“Your parents aren’t stupid. They might get themselves into trouble, but He won’t kill them.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

The woman sighed and tousled his hair, then winced a little. “Go take a shower.”

“I don’t want to look at myself.”

“Then shower with the lights off. You need a wash.”

He sighed, drained his glass, and got to his feet, swaying slightly. “I’m going to bed after.”

“Good idea.” Standing as well, she kissed him on the cheek and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With a small nod, he stumbled into the bathroom and shut the door. CJ turned to Severus.

“He’s been like this all semester,” he said.

“I know. Come here.”

He stepped obediently into her arms, pulled her tightly into his own, closed his eyes against the side of her head and breathed in her perfume.

“You said it went smoothly, but you don’t seem like it.”

“It did go smoothly. I just… was thinking about some things. What were you talking about before I got here?”

“The same thing we always talk about. He’s scared, he’s confused, he’s overwhelmed, he’s depressed, he still hasn’t integrated what happened into his self and world schemas, and the fact that he keeps blacking out isn’t helping, but if he stops drinking with everything that’s going on he’ll kill himself, so that’s a future problem.”

“ _Integrated it into his schemas_. Sometimes I forget you’re a psychologist,”he muttered into her cheek, “but you always remind me.”

“Spend eight years in the echo chamber of academia and you’ll start dropping jargon too. Come with me, and tell me about your night.”


End file.
